


Our Love is a Ghost

by anignoranthistorian



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: 1920s, F/M, I definitely shouldn't be doing this, I have so much reading I need to do still, but here i am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:56:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 26,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27158966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anignoranthistorian/pseuds/anignoranthistorian
Summary: And with that, it was Christmastime on Prince Edward Island. He was 20, in his sophomore year. It was 1921.He sat at the back of the Presbyterian church with his brother, Bash, and Bash’s daughter.He heard the doors open one more time, which caused Delphine to whine. The brothers turned their attention to contenting the young girl. Gilbert was holding up a toy for her when Bash let out a low whistle, disbelief clear on his face.Gilbert turned to follow his line of sight. A young woman several rows ahead of them removed her wool cloche, revealing a red bob beneath.Slowly, Anne’s pale face turned towards the back, catching his eye. She was quick to look away, but he wasn’t.“You know,” his brother said quietly. “She cut all her hair off to be sure that you would look.”Living in a time, in a moment, in a place, where it seems everyone is a bit haunted, Gilbert Blythe can't understand what comes next.Shirbert set in the 1920s, where things weren't settled before Anne and Gilbert went their separate ways.
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Comments: 92
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

“Gentlemen,” was the call to order. All authority emanated in the voice of this anonymous fellow, some young man or another. There were perhaps thirty of them in all, gathered at the edge of the park that bordered the University of Toronto’s own green spaces, out of reach of anyone who could make a fuss over their gathering, who could put an end to their plans before they’d even begun.

All the students turned towards the man, ready to take their orders. 

“There is something in the air tonight, gentlemen! Are you ready to insert yourself where you absolutely do not belong? To seize at the opportunity that God has thrown into your path, to grab it with both hands, wrap it up in your arms, and steal it away for as long as you damn well please?”

The others cheered, but Gilbert stared. He’d been unsure from the moment he’d agreed to come as to  _ why  _ he would ever do this. 

“Who is to say, my friends, that we have no place at a party being thrown for soldiers? Us? Children of their ugly war? Well, I say this: they started it. They died over it. Their widows don’t need to be lonely forever, do any of you agree?” The self-appointed leader of the rally breathed heavily now, waiting for a response. Gilbert saw people nodding vaguely, heard a nervous cough. Perhaps the others weren’t so sure whether they should want this. 

Sensing he would get nothing more, the leader frowned. “All right, then: let’s go,” he said as he jumped down from his perch. 

As they walked along the wide sidewalks, uniform down to the gel and the parts in their hair, Gilbert wondered if he might as well be anyone of them. Sometimes he  _ wished  _ he could be any one of them. Someone who still had things that were unknown to them, who could stand a chance to hope. 

He was pulled from this line of thought by a nudge to his left arm. He heard the men in front of him all give a greeting in their turn, and then a small, feminine laugh.

“God,” the man beside him said. “I hate it when they do that to their hair.” 

Two young women walked past just then, one of them with cropped mousy hair. 

“God,” Gilbert echoed, something of a prayer coming to his lips. There were all these ghosts that came out of nowhere, ghosts like this girl with her bob, who never let him be. They were all poor imitations, but they pulled him into some other time, some other place-- and he was only half-reluctant to go.

And with that, it was Christmastime on Prince Edward Island. He was 20, in his sophomore year. It was 1921. 

He sat at the back of the Presbyterian church with his brother, Bash, and Bash’s daughter. They had tried hard to be the last to take their seats. Gilbert was unsure why they still attended these, sometimes feeling as though he’d truly been made sophisticated by his time in the city, other times feeling desperate to cling to home. 

He heard the doors open one more time, which caused Delphine to whine. The brothers turned their attention to contenting the young girl. Gilbert was holding up a toy for her when Bash let out a low whistle, disbelief clear on his face. 

Gilbert turned to follow his line of sight. A young woman several rows ahead of them removed her wool cloche, revealing a red bob beneath.

Slowly, Anne’s pale face turned towards the back, catching his eye. She was quick to look away, but he wasn’t.

“You know,” his brother said quietly. “She cut all her hair off to be sure that you would look.”

And then it was October of ‘23 again and all the students were standing in front of a second-rate hotel. Gilbert could hear a small group of young men finagling to be let in.

“You’ll be short on men!” One of them cried in indignation.

“Yes,  _ men _ . Not boys.” And it seemed that was the end of it. The students turned to take their leave as a group of women in every variety of jewel tones exited from cars. 

_ Were these the war widows _ ? Gilbert wondered. He was reminded of the widows he’d known in his childhood in Avonlea. He thought of them and their ceaseless black, their endless mourning. 

That wasn’t the custom anymore. He remembered a teacher he’d had, right when he’d come back to the Island, and how he’d been called up for military service. Then there’d been a lady brought in to teach, Ms. Stacey. Her husband had been killed in Belgium. Gilbert wondered what that felt like, to feel that sort of loss. He was tempted to say he already had, but he knew that was wrong. 

But what else did you call this? This feeling that he could never have what he wanted? 

The war, and then that horrible flu, had made too many widows all across the world for it to be sensible to wear black. So now people just walked out into the world like nothing had ever happened.

Gilbert did the same every day. 


	2. Chapter 2

It felt like it was so many years ago, that’s what everyone agreed on. In December of 1919, he had sat with his classmates beside icy pines and beneath a ramshackle roof. A sort of open air school, they’d said, to keep the flu away. Gilbert remembered one of the younger students and how they asked where the flu had gone. 

He had no answer then, but now, six months from graduating, he supposed it had adapted and changed-- become something else, or that  _ people _ had become something else, something that the virus couldn’t wrap itself around.

He remembered how precious those moments in the makeshift school room were to him then, though he hardly understood it when he was 18. When one is a man, it’s strange to look back at the young girls, at the glances that stirred him as a boy. And still, there she is, fifteen and her nose pink from the blustery winter winds, hair tangled from the same gusts, that fills his senses some nights. She wore a blue coat then, he recalled, handmade mittens on her hands. 

And the note that she passed, underhand, so the others wouldn’t see.

_ Will you come to the fence tonight? _

Her handwriting was very poor in those mittens. 

It was always so quiet those days. Somedays the birds didn’t dare to sing, it seemed. Every family in Avonlea locked themselves up, and he’d heard the other boys wonder why. They were safe, they thought, in this rural place. Gilbert knew better, and he encouraged them all to hole themselves up, to stay apart as much as they could.

But it  _ was  _ dreadful, he admitted. 

In October there’d been a few too many cases in Charlottetown and so the school board told the students to stay home for a week. A week became two, which became three as they erected the halfling that was their new school house. In the meantime, Gilbert saw only Bash and Mary, did nothing but study and work. 

A week and a half into this new mundanity, his brother dropped a small envelope into his lap. It landed with a dense thud as a corner of Bash’s mouth turned up. 

“Some mail for you, my friend.” 

With a blush, Gilbert began to tear it open. “And what gives you the right to look like that?”

“You see that ‘G’?” Bash stilled Gilbert’s hand and pointed to the first letter of the young man’s name. “Who on God’s green earth can get six swirls into a single letter?”

“Anyone with an ounce of commitment,” Mary’s voice called out from the next room over. They heard the sound of heeled footsteps. “You leave that boy alone, Bash.”

He ignored this, though his tone was less exuberant. “It’s Anne,” he said simply. 

“She probably needs to borrow a book or something,” he muttered, though the couple had already begun to retreat from the living room.

Gilbert unfolded the letter carefully.

_ Dear Gilbert Blythe, _

_ Have you read Wuthering Heights? It is my sincere hope that you have, as I am requesting your presence at the fence in front of the small elm tree at the bottom of that large hill in your orchard at 3:00 tomorrow afternoon so that we can discuss our thoughts and whatever aspirations and fantasies of our own that we are able to impose on Bronte’s text. _

_ I intend for this to be an inaugural meeting of our book club, and our rendezvous will last until dark, or until Mary or Marilla calls us inside-- whichever comes first.  _

_ I understand that I have not allowed enough time for you to send a reply by mail, and rest assured this was done with great purpose, because I absolutely expect you to be there.  _

_ In expectation, _

_ Anne Shirley-Cuthbert _

And so Gilbert found himself wrapping himself up in a heavy coat and donning his gloves the following day. He saw a dot of red and blue coming across the garden of Green Gables. He pulled his scarf up over his nose.

“Where’s your book?” Anne called from a hundred feet away. He wondered how she could possibly tell he did not have it with him from such a distance, and then reconsidered, knowing that Anne’s vision was sharp for those things she wanted. 

“I don’t have it,” he called. She began to run then, rushing to the fence as her face fell in horror. He pulled at his scarf to hide his grin. “I’ve never read  _ Wuthering Heights _ ,” he added, knowing it would get a rise out of her.

“Gilbert, how can you have gone  _ eighteen years  _ without having read it? Didn’t you feel there was something missing in your soul? How can you even begin to understand… longing! And vengeance--”

They stood six feet apart on either side of the fence. “Anne, you’re not a particularly vengeful person yourself,” he scoffed.

“Perhaps I am now!” She countered, eyes wide and nose flared. “Perhaps I simply didn’t understand the  _ depth  _ of emotion that revenge calls for! Gilbert, can you imagine simply  _ feeling  _ as much as these characters-”

“I’ve never read the book,” he reminded, but she did not notice.

“I think that Heathcliff may be a kindred spirit in his capacity to experience his own internal life!” Gilbert took a seat on the ground now, settling himself in. “In his ability to love! Should I ever feel a love as positively  _ consuming  _ as his love for Cathy--”

“Is Cathy the heroine?” He asked 

“She is! She is the object of his devotion, he loves her longer than she lives! It rules his whole life!”

He sat thoughtfully for a moment. “I don’t think Cathy is a very good name for a heroine.” 

“It’s short for Catherine,” she sniffed, thumping down onto the ground to face him. “And then what would you say is a better name?” She said it as though it was a dare.

“Anne,” he said simply.

“Yes?”

“No, I’m saying Anne would make a good name for a heroine.”

She looked at him sceptically for a moment. “Marilla says I need to become more gracious.”

He was unsure if this meant she was receptive to his idea. He thought he had no response. “Does she?” He finally landed on.

“I only say that because what I want to say is  _ not  _ gracious,” she continued.

“Well I think you know I meant no harm by it. Anne is a great name, a name for queens and empresses-”

“Catherine is a name for queens!” She countered, crossing her arms. 

“Queen consorts, maybe, but Anne is in a class of its own.”

She pondered this. “And why, when they were naming her, would they have thought that Anne ever had a chance of becoming queen? She was a second daughter, she had a half-brother--”

“Wouldn’t you say it’s remarkable, then, that the fates brought it all together? Maybe she was destined to reign, to become Queen Anne.” He watched as Anne slowly uncrossed her arms and a smile crept onto her face.

He thinks now, in November, 1923, that this was a moment of significance. He was met then with an unconscious understanding that there was something wonderful in leaning into this world that Anne dwelt in, filled with faith in fortune and boundless emotion. Lurking on the edges of that understanding were the inklings of a feeling that he’d only come to name the following summer.

In August, he called that feeling love. In September and October and November and all the months that followed her silent rejection of his declaration, his naming of what was on his heart, that word “love” became inextricably tied to another word, synonymous in his own vocabulary. It lived at the tip of his tongue each day, though he rarely had cause to voice it in Toronto. This love he carried with him into his adulthood was simply replaced with a single thought.

Anne. 

They spent many afternoons in the same fashion, even after they’d been allowed back to class. He didn’t dare ask why she suddenly preferred his company to even Diana’s, afraid she’d confirm his suspicions: he was her second choice.

There was a time, just after the pond had frozen over, where he was asked to join in a hockey game. 

“Will you come?” Moody had asked.

Gilbert looked to Anne. She gave a single, barely perceptible nod. 

“I’m sorry,” he’d told the boys. “I’m needed at home today.”

She wasn’t at the fence that day. 

The next morning he knocked on the kitchen door of Green Gables and did his best to set his face into an expression of indifference. He heard shuffling from inside the house.

“Probably Sebastian,” he heard a muffled voice say. “Needs my shovel again.”

Matthew Cuthbert opened the door. His mouth formed a tight “o” as he took in the sight of the young man.

Gilbert coughed. “Good morning, Mr. Cuthbert. Is Anne still home?”

No answer was needed, as the young woman herself came bounding down the staircase, hair unbraided, her eyebrows furrowed.

“What are you doing here?” It sounded as though she were trying to muster up anger, but she couldn’t quite manage.

“Well, it’s very icy today. I thought maybe we should walk to school together. For safety.”

“For safety?” Anne scoffed, but Mr. Cuthbert nodded approvingly. 

“Very smart,” he pronounced. “Remember how you fell last winter on your way home, Anne? Hurt your ankle?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“Can’t hurt to go with someone else, then. You should really be on your way, since you started your morning late and all.”

“I have to finish my hair,” she argued.

“Well I figure that education you’re working on is more important.” Gilbert smiled, hearing his neighbor outside of his usual context. He thought that parenthood suited him.

Anne stared at her father a moment, but he didn’t relent. She marched down the stairs before shrugging into her coat and practically leaping out the door, leaving Gilbert behind. 

“We need to get going!” She called out without looking back. “We’re late.”

Gilbert walked quickly to catch up with her.

“What happened? You’re never late.”

Anne’s lips set into a harsh line. “Marilla’s not feeling well this morning, so Matthew’s the one who had to get me up. Neither of us are used to that.” As she took her quick steps, Gilbert watched her loose hair move freely about her shoulders, entranced by the swaying motion. “Why didn’t you go play hockey yesterday?” She demanded.

He was taken aback. “Because I thought we were going to spend some time together.”

Again, her brows furrowed. “‘Spend some time together?’” She echoed, as though the phrase were foreign to her. “That’s a strange way to think about it.”

“Is it?” He asked, pretending he wasn’t slightly wounded by the distance her words indicated she desired. 

“I think so,” she said, though she hardly sounded sure. “Anyway, you should have told them you’d play, and you  _ definitely  _ shouldn’t have looked to me for approval.”

“Why, though?” 

“Because it would be a  _ travesty _ if people knew about our book club!”

His breath caught. _A travesty._ “Oh,” he said.

She must have had second thoughts about her harsh words, because she replied: “Not that there’s anything wrong with you! I just mean… oh, it’s terrible that people haven’t developed some sort of telepathy! I could never explain to you what I’m talking about, but if you could see inside of my head, you would understand. I’m just…” She put a mittened hand to her face, in frustration or despair. “Have you ever worried about what it is people think of you?” Her voice came through muffled, but a certain desperation to be understood could be heard there as well.

Gilbert racked his brains, hoping to find a memory that told him  _ yes, of course I’ve felt that way. You’re not the only one.  _

But none came. 

“I worry about that, because I’m quite… well, any number of things. But lately I’ve been afraid to be thought of at all, you see.”

“‘Thought of at all?’”

“Yes! In case I’m thought of negatively,” she explained. “And if… if they link us together, they’ll think of me, and I’m  _ sure  _ it won’t be anything nice.” He stopped in his tracks, amazed by the bizarre logic. “You can’t just stop there! You know we’re late.”

“Why would you think that?” He finally managed.

“Because it’s never anything nice. Take Mrs. Barry, for example, she’s taken up a new agenda against me for some reason I can’t fathom, and it’s very unpleasant!”

“I’m sure it is,” he said, shaking his head to clear it. “But that doesn’t mean our classmates will… What did you call it? Think negatively of you?”

“I think they will,” she said with a shrug.

He shook his head as they turned another corner, now in sight of the open air school house. “This isn’t like you.”

She pursed her lips. “Marilla thinks the same thing as you. She says my thoughts will settle in a few months, but I’m not so sure.” She bumped his arm playfully with his elbow. He wondered if this was her way of making light of her confession. “I’ll see you later.”

He watched her hurry off to find Diana or Ruby or whoever else was straggling. 

And in 1923, he heard his name called by his professor as he took attendance. 

As he walked back to his boarding house that evening, the first snowfall of the year crunching under the toe of his boots, he wondered if Marilla Cuthbert had been right, that her mind had settled sometime in those months, or in the years since he’d been parted from her. 

He undressed for bed thinking about the young boy he tutored for pocket money. 

“I think about the people who don’t get thought about,” the nine year old Francis Matthews had explained as he stood in front of a map of Canada. “I close my eyes and I let my finger land somewhere.” The child demonstrated this now, closing his eyes and letting his hand fall. He opened, a smile on his face. “Leduc, Alberta; I’m thinking of you. I hope you’re doing well.”

Gilbert Blythe laid down in his bed, his gaze unfocused out the window.

“Anne,” he mouthed. “I’m thinking of you. I hope you’re doing well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here I am again, spending two hours I should have spent reading Marx, NOT reading Marx. Typical.
> 
> I've decided that this story will be set fully in the 1910s/1920s. Maybe another story can serve as Shirbert by the Decades, but I'm enjoying writing in this era too much to let it go so quickly :)
> 
> I hope that if you are reading this when you should probably be doing something else, it was worth it! 
> 
> Wishing you all well, and feel free to tell me what you should technically be doing hahaha
> 
> All the best,  
> S


	3. Chapter 3

Winifred Rose had seen the war, a fact that seemed to hold relevance only to her. 

In March of 1920, the Rose family were six months settled in Charlottetown, though they’d never meant to linger on the island. But what was there to do in England? What was left? And what could be scrounged together?

The whispers in London society spoke in unison: nothing was as it once was. 

She looked back on the last glorious summer, of her and her mother’s long ride to the palace gates, of her white gown and her mother’s tiara and all the jewels, of her perfect curtsy before their majesties, of the ball her bachelor uncle, the viscount, had thrown for her at the Georgian Hadley House. She wondered what it was all for. 

“It was all nothing,” she muttered through gritted teeth. 

“Pardon?” The doctor’s voice pulled her from her memories, pulled her from the last vestiges of a golden past. Pulled from 1914. What was she now? Not the granddaughter of a marquess, the only niece of a viscount, and not the golden debutante-- but a nurse, a nurse trained so briefly in Bath and then shipped off to Flanders, and then France. A trained nurse. 

And she was very nearly 24 years old: six years gone from that final summer. 

“I’m sorry,” she told the doctor who sat beside her. She pretended to sort paperwork, putting on that smile, the one she could only barely remember as being part of her youth. “I was miles away.”

She wondered if this provincial doctor, too old to have fought in the war, had any semblance of an idea what it was that she knew.

She supposed her father had planned to move on to Ottawa long before now. Why the family hadn’t, she was never told. Though she felt quite old at 23, she was told so very little. Mr. and Mrs. Rose still called her “girl.”

When she told them she figured she’d work, as the year  _ was  _ 1920, she had planned for their objections.

“The men from this continent are dead, too,” she told them with that same forgotten smile. 

And so now she handed out ointments and handed the doctor his tools, unallowed even to perform a simple stitch or clean a cut on any of the country farmers who frequented the practice. 

Sometimes she thought to herself,  _ they call this place a city? _ It held nothing but the language in common with London, not as she knew it before the war, not as she knew it after.

Would she ever go back to Britain? She wasn’t sure. She remembered a time where she and her girlfriends revelled in uncertainty, twirling in ball gowns and strolling through country parks with young men, each wondering which one it was who would become their husband. 

But not all of them were young. She thought of Sir Lawrence Chester, with his foul beard and his dead wives, how he cornered her on the dance floor, leaving her with no option but to dance with him… Was it Eleanor’s ball, or Katherine’s? All she could think of were his wives, both dead in childbirth. Her friend Augusta’s widowed aunt always said there’s scarcely a woman alive who could birth a Chester child and live to tell the tale. Augusta would blush and tell the other girls not to listen.

It was Katherine-- Lady Kitty, is what everyone called her-- who did it, who married the man with the foul beard. Her sweetheart was killed in France in the Spring of 1918, and Winifred supposed Lady Kitty figured there were no new sweethearts to be found.

Winifred had just gotten a letter from Kitty saying she was expecting in July. 

The doctor cleared his throat. “Miss Rose,” he said. “I should tell you, I won’t be needing you on Saturdays anymore.” Winifred stared at him. “I’m sure you’ll be wondering why, and I should assure you, it is nothing to do with your performance, which is fine,” he told her, wringing his hands. “I’ve taken on an apprentice. He begins this Saturday.”

“An apprentice?” She questioned, forgetting herself. “Surely this fellow isn’t trained as a nurse. Surely you could do with both of our assistance.”

“Yes, well, I just figure an uncrowded office will best serve him…”

“And, pardon me if I’m speaking out of turn, but shouldn’t an apprentice make himself available to you far and beyond a single day every week?”

“Saturdays are the only days he has free, all the rest he’s in the school house,” the doctor explained.

“The school house?” Winifred echoed. “Your apprentice is a child?”

“No, certainly not a child, per se, just a young fellow coming in from the country to learn.” She had never been given the language for this feeling. This disbelief, this anger, that a  _ farm boy  _ was the preferable candidate. “If you’d still like to work, perhaps you could come in and do some dusting in the morning?” He suggested.

The old version of herself, Miss Winifred Alexandra Louisa Rose, rose up inside her, shaking at her very edges, demanding to be seen as she was in 1914, walking the halls of Leominster Park-- a place perfect and beautiful and  _ not entailed down the male line _ . A place that would be hers when her uncle passed. 

And then that more familiar version of herself, Nurse Rose, in her Red Cross apron, covered in blood and everything else, took over.

She let the doctor prattle on, barely listening. Winifred nodded when it came time to nod and thanked the doctor for the opportunity, explaining how she felt she should relinquish her Wednesday shift as well. 

Winifred donned her coat and hat without a second glance at her former employer, still quietly seething, and then stepped out into that endless Canadian winter. She closed her eyes for a moment, pretending the pavement beneath her feet was London pavement. Pretending she’d spent the morning on the train from Victoria Station to Dover, that she’d gotten off somewhere in the middle of Kent, and now it was the sounds of the county in early spring that were filling her ears with birdsong. 

A great crash sent her backwards, the palms of her hands scraping against the pebbled Charlottetown pavement, tearing through her wool gloves and stinging the skin underneath. She blinked into the dim sunlight, trying to make out the source of her fall. A young man was speaking quickly, apologizing, she supposed. He reached a hand down to her. 

“Miss?” He said, and Winifred had the impression he’d said it multiple times already. She shook her head to clear it. 

For the second time that morning, she donned her practiced smile. “Where is my head today?” She asked brightly, accepting the man’s hand as she moved to stand. 

“Oh, no, Miss: this was entirely my fault, I--”

And there it was. She knew the young man’s expression well. Eyes darken, lips slightly part. It was always a moment of scrutiny, uncomfortable as it was familiar. She knew this man, like all the others, thought she was lovely.

She dipped her head demurely. “Thank you for your help. Good morning.” She moved to sidestep him on the walkway. She’d made it mere feet, ears piqued to see which it would be: half called out, half let her walk after their realizations.

“Wait, Miss!” He called. She stopped. She would let it play out, she decided. Slowly she turned back to him, the smile creeping back onto her face. 

“Yes?”

“Your hands,” he said, walking to meet her. “They’re hurt. If you’ll come with me, just for a moment, I can have them bandaged.”

Her brows pulled together. “Bandaged?” She questioned.

“Yes,” he nodded. Winifred could see how the smile he wore was meant to be warm. She’d only seen an expression like it once or twice. A Welsh lieutenant had one for her as she looked at his gangrenous leg. 

It had to be amputated.

“This building right here is a doctor’s office. He can clean that up, wrap them up, before you go on your way.”

She didn’t fancy the idea of facing Dr. Ward again so soon. “Oh, I don’t think-”

“It’s no trouble,” he insisted, eyes so wide. Innocent like the youngest soldiers in 1914, before anyone knew how bad the war would be. “I’m his apprentice… I could do it for you if he’s too busy. Please, I was the one who knocked you over.” 

“His apprentice?” Winifred mouthed. She took in his appearance more seriously. The slightest bit disheveled, with dark hair and eyes. And young, so young. Eighteen, perhaps. Did she look so very young at eighteen? When she boarded the ship to the continent? 

“Yes,” he said happily. “Will you come?” 

There was a strange stirring in her stomach. Hollow echoes of similar sentiments flooded her mind. 

“Come, Miss Rose,” well-heeled young men would say at summer parties, pulling her along through the hedges for a moment of privacy.

“Come now, Nurse Rose,” the war doctors would command.

“Winifred. Come.” Always called like a dog, with no choice in the matter.

Intrigued by the prospect of a choice, she decided to follow in spite of her initial hesitations.

The doctor wasn’t in sight when they entered. The young man directed Winifred back to the examination room, where she sat at the edge of the exam table. He dug around as though he were only vaguely familiar with the place. She bit her tongue, stopping herself before she could tell him that the appropriate bandages were in the third drawer down. 

“Ah,” he said, pulling a roll from a different drawer entirely. “These should do.” They were much thicker than her shallow wounds required. She watched as the fellow washed his hands in the nearby sink and wet a cloth. Ever smiling, he approached Winifred once more. “May I?” He asked, gesturing to the wet cloth.

“You may,” she said, voice steady. The young man swallowed hard and began to dab at the scrapes. “What are you called?” She asked him as he worked.

“Gilbert Blythe.” He looked up through thick lashes with a cheeky smile. “What are  _ you  _ called?” 

She found her tone mirroring his. “Guess.”

“Well,” he said, grin widening. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

“And do you think they give out different names where I’m from?” She teased.

“I don’t suppose  _ you  _ know any Gilberts.”

She considered this. “I suppose not.” 

He moved to the other hand, wiping it clean. “I thought so,” he said smugly. “My first guess: The Right Honorable Sophia Cecilia Lydia de Winter. Am I right?”

“Not quite,” she said. “Another try?”

“Lady Beatrice Talbot. But everyone calls you ‘Birdy.’” 

She laughed. “You aim too high for me.”

He laughed, too. “Why shouldn’t you be a great lady?”

She watched as he bandaged her hands, thinking of all the rough and weary men she’d done the same for. 

“I’m just a nurse,” she told him. “My mother, and her mother, and her mother before her. They’re the great ladies. I was allowed to become a nurse when the Romanov girls did.”

“Were you in the war?” He asked, not looking at her now.

“Yes. It was Grand Duchess Olga, Grand Duchess Tatiana, and me,” she joked, sensing that he’d become uncomfortable.

He met her gaze. “So what are you called?”

“Winifred,” she told him finally. 

His grin returned. “Grand Duchess Winifred.” 

“Oh, no!” She giggled, perhaps with a bit too much gusto. “It didn’t end well for the others! Don’t group me with them!”

The doctor stepped out from the water closet, his stomach making an unpleasant sound. It was a moment before he noticed the young people. “Nurse Rose, what are you--”

“She’s just hurt her hands, Dr. Ward,” Gilbert interjected. “I’ve just been cleaning them up for her before she’s off.”

“Right.” The doctor shifted on the balls of his feet, clearly uncomfortable. There had always been something about the young woman that made him ill at ease. He thought sometimes that it may be that impeccable breeding, how she was molded so precisely to ensure that  _ no one  _ was uneasy. There was that smile of hers…

“I think I’m all set now. Thank you, Mr. Blythe, I’ll be on my way,” she said warmly. “Dr. Ward.” The two nodded at one another.

For the second time that day, Winifred stepped out of the office. She was half a block away when she heard him calling for her once again.

“Miss Rose!” Gilbert hollered.

Once more, she turned. “Yes?”

He ran to meet her, pressing the wool gloves into her hand. “You’ve forgotten these.” He told her breathlessly. 

“It would seem I did,” she replied with a smile. They stood there a moment in silence. “Is there something else?” She prompted him. 

He looked nervous, and  _ so  _ young. 

“Can I see you again?” He finally mustered. 

She took a deep breath. “I’m quite a bit older than you, Mr. Blythe…”

“I don’t think so,” he said dismissively. “You can’t be more than 20.”

“You flatter me,” she said flatly. “But not quite.”

“Still, I’m old for my age,” he tried.

“Are you?” She questioned. “May I think about it?” 

Winifred didn’t know it then, but this was the second interaction Gilbert had had that day. Unlike the first, this one need not end in rejection. He only needed to give this one time. 

“You can,” he told her seriously. “I’ll be back to Charlottetown this time next week. Perhaps, if you’d like, you could tell me your answer then?”

“Perhaps I could,” she said with a soft smile. “Until then.”

Winifred went home to the big house at the end of the road. At dinner her mother spoke of Kitty’s marriage, of little Cousin Grace’s engagement, just months after her debut.

She lay in bed that evening thinking about the generation of young men who were there one day and gone the next. Men she couldn’t help. She thought of Kitty’s old man husband. Of how quickly she, Winifred, was replaced in her work. 

She began to think that an old-for-his-age eighteen wasn’t so very young. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone,
> 
> It's been a while, but it's only a little bit my fault. I hope you can forgive me for the wait. 
> 
> If you've read other stories I've written, you may have seen my anti-Winifred tags in the past. I just want to take a second to explain I don't resent Winnie as a character, I just didn't think it made any sense historically for this random posh English girl to be dusting around a provincial Canadian doctor's office, ready to go off and marry a random young farm boy in 1899. I do think it could make sense for her to be there doing those things in 1920.
> 
> I've definitely taken some liberties here, but I hope you still enjoyed this little exploration of Winnie!
> 
> If you're celebrating, Happy Thanksgiving!  
> -S


	4. Chapter 4

He didn’t come to school and he didn’t go to the fence that afternoon. Anne stood at the edge of her family’s property, eyes squinting in the slanting snowfall. A brown automobile rumbled down the road, making a sharp right turn at the white birch tree at the end of his drive. It puttered up the hill, finally stopping in front of his porch. She watched as a figure clothed in heavy black wool emerged, large leather bag in hand, and knocked once on the door. The figure disappeared into the house. 

Anne worried over what the doctor could be doing at Gilbert’s. 

She climbed the creaking stairs of her own home, then paused. Marilla’s headaches had pained her so much these past months, Anne had been learning to fend for herself. Sometimes she imagined conversations with Marilla, carefully considering what her mother would say in this situation or that.

She did it again here.

“ _ I just saw Dr. Ward go into Gilbert’s _ ,” she imagined herself saying.

_ “In this storm?”  _ Marilla would question, her lips puckered in worry. 

_ “Yes, _ ” Anne would reply.  _ “What do you think it means?” _

_ “It means someone’s very sick,”  _ Marilla would answer with a sigh.

_ “Should I go?”  _ Anne would ask.

Marilla would shake her head.  _ “No,”  _ she’d say.  _ “It could be the flu.” _

And Anne would nod and retreat.  _ It could be the flu… _

In this real, physical world, Anne moved to her room and sat on the edge of her bed, closing her eyes. She had spent so long holding out hope that on her sixteenth birthday she would wake up to a miracle. She’d dreamt of a face clean of freckles, her frame filled out, her hair auburn. None of it had come to fruition; instead, a great confusion had taken root in her mind in the days since her birthday. 

It started with a prolonged guilt. She was upset with herself for how she’d spoken to Gilbert that morning on the train. She’d also hoped her infamous temper might abandon her at sixteen…

Day by day, she found it harder to concoct her fairytales. She would never be Cordelia, she understood now, and she assumed that meant there would be no Prince Wisteria. How difficult it had become to conjure him, his blond waves cast into shadow, his eyes darkening, form thinning. She had thought at first that her mind was making Wisteria into nothing, nothing at all, but instead it lingered here in this warm darkness. 

And there were those peculiar moments where she’d catch that boy’s eye in their open air school. Perhaps the most apt was her poetic recitation, a work of her own creation, in front of the class last Friday. She’d been the only student awarded full marks. 

“A slow march from the chapel, a veil over a lovely face. Abashed, left for dead, the bride leaves the altar alone. Across the grasses; a bird’s song, an orchestral martyrdom before this entire place. A few muttered words from the groom-- the wrong ones-- he leaves through the side door. But she walks those grounds, ever lovely, haunted by the vows she’d made and those he couldn’t say.”

Diana and Ruby clapped and smiled widely, but it was  _ him _ that caught her eye. 

Gilbert smiled just the same, but he looked on with some emotion which made Anne duck her head, a blush and a smile creeping up her cheeks. She didn’t recognize it, couldn’t name it at that moment, but when she brought her graded poetry assignment home and showed it to Matthew when he came in from the barn, she thought she understood.

Matthew read it over and gave a slow smile, patting the back of her hand as they sat at the dining table. 

_ This is what it is to be proud of someone _ , Anne thought. 

She carried that thought with her as she washed her hands and face and dressed for sleep, as she prayed at her bedside, and as she laid listless under her covers. 

Had she ever felt proud? Prideful, everyone said she was prideful, but had she ever looked onto someone else and felt warm? She thought that it had something to do with tying your lot in with another’s, which she had surely done. 

Was Gilbert proud of her? Had he thrown in his lot with hers?

This last question echoed in her mind as she opened her eyes. She pictured an ugly miasma floating menacingly through the stone farmhouse. There were those who took the Spanish flu seriously and those who made a great game of it, so it was hard for Anne to know what it was, truly. She sometimes thought of it like the plague, making angry bubos appear on Bash’s skin, on Mary’s and Delphine’s, on  _ his.  _

She knew that it actually wasn’t so. It caused fever and chills and filled people’s lungs with fluid so they gasped for air. 

Was someone in that home gasping now? She hoped not. She loved Mary. She loved Bash. She loved Delphine. She…

She stopped short, unable to complete the thought. 

Anne stood quickly from the bed, rushing back down the stairs and into her boots.

“Anne, where are you going? The sun is nearly down,” she heard Matthew call as she wrapped herself in her scarf.

“I’ll be back so quick you’ll hardly know I was gone!” She yelled back as the screen door crashed closed behind her. 

She rushed across the orchard, not noticing her tired ankles as she dragged her feet through the heavy snow. Many feet ahead of her, she heard a door pull open. She looked up.

“Anne!” Gilbert called, donning his own scarf as he scrambled down the porch steps. “Stay away!” 

She could hardly hear him. “What?” She yelled.

“Stay away!” He said again, louder this time. “It’s influenza! Stay away!” 

They were perhaps 15 feet apart now. They both stopped dead in their tracks, reaching for their scarves to pull them high up over their mouths and noses. 

She took in his appearance. Face pale, eyes rather red, but there was no glean of feverish sweat across his brow. She breathed a sigh of relief. They stood there a moment longer before she spoke.

“Who?”

“Mary,” he told her. “It’s Mary.” His voice cracked on the last syllable.

She took a step forward. “Gilbert, I-”

He held up a hand. “Stop,” he commanded.

“I want to help,” she insisted.

“No,” he said. “I could have it; I don’t want to give it to you.”

She watched as he turned his face to the side and raised a gloved hand to his eyes. She thought she understood the gesture. Had she seen him cry before? She felt the strong urge to step forward, regardless of his warnings; to throw her lot in with his. 

A thought struck her then, in a voice something like her own.  _ “You can’t give what others won’t take,”  _ it told her. Was there a way to reach across this space without touch, to show that she was with him in this trial?

Gilbert wiped at his face. 

“Dr. Ward made me go in and tell her,” he said. “Tell her she had it. That there’s nothing that can really be done to help. She either lives, or she…”

They let the thought hang in the air. No sound was made until he plopped heavily onto the snow covered lawn, falling down into a heap. She stood ten feet away as her neighbor quietly cried. 

Some minutes later, Gilbert looked up to Anne. She nodded and moved to the ground as well, the cold wet quickly creeping through her stockings. 

They said nothing as the sun went down. Unlike their many rendezvous at the fence, neither Marilla nor Mary called out to them in the darkness.

Eventually the cloud cover broke and a night’s sky of stars hung over them. They looked the other in the eye, and with a nod, both rose to their feet. Toes pointed to the other, they waited another moment longer.

Anne’s heart was heavy, her jaw tight with words that tied to feelings she couldn’t name. 

“Stay well,” she finally said, voice quiet.

“Stay well,” he echoed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Realizing it may be a few weeks before I have a chance to write again, I decided to spend the afternoon writing this chapter. It certainly has a lot of parallels to this holiday.   
> I hope you all stay well.
> 
> -S


	5. Chapter 5

Dry lightning flashed over Nova Scotia, pulling Anne’s attention away from her drawing and towards the courtyard outside her second story window. Instead of the imagined dark figure in the distance, she saw two young people embrace before the door of the dormitory. The young women stood on her toes before the fellow lifted her off her feet and spun her around, her party dress fluttering around her calves. 

With a sigh, Anne stood, setting down her pen and reaching for her blue flannel robe. With the lights still off, Anne stood in her doorway in wait. Soon enough she heard the gentle click of heels coming up the stairs. Anne frowned at the thought that the girl hadn’t even thought to take them off first. 

The young woman passed Anne in the hallway without seeing her. She had begun to fiddle with her door key when Anne felt for the light switch. The delinquent girl turned sharply to see who had joined her in the hall, a look of horror on her face.

“Miss McCallum,” Anne said. “Can I have a word with you?”

The girl’s shoulders hunched and she sighed heavily in defeat. “I suppose we better get this over with.”

“Sadie,” Anne began. “This isn’t like you. I hardly ever have to give you a second thought, which is such a relief considering how so many of the other girls on this floor behave. Why didn’t you tell me you were going steady with this fellow? You know I’m so very lenient in allowing people privacy in the sitting room-”

“He isn’t a student,” Sadie said, her voice low and smug like a challenge. “He clerks for Judge Kelogg.”

“He’s a lawyer?” Anne asked quietly. “He’s quite old for you, don’t you think? You haven’t even turned seventeen yet.”

Sadie McCallum rolled her eyes and scoffed loudly. “Anne, you’re such a stick in the mud. I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about what goes on between a man and a woman.”

“Miss McCallum, I-”

“You know, the girls talk about it. They all say you’re going to be a spinster. That you’re going to spend your life telling off us young girls, even when you’re old, because you’ve never let a fellow turn your head! Ha!”

“Miss McCallum, have you been drinking?” Anne gasped.

“‘Have I been drinking?’ Why, what else would I be doing on a date? Everett is a wonderful dancer, he knows all the best spots-- the only spots, really-- in Halifax. And he’s a gentleman, yes he is! He paid for  _ all  _ of my wine!”

“Sadie,” Anne’s lips set into a thin line as she considered her next words carefully. “Don’t you think he had an incentive to ensure you had plenty to drink?”

“Of course he did!” Said Sadie loudly. Her raised voice brought two girls, each with their hair set in rollers, to their doors. Anne shooed them back to bed. “I won’t be a spinster.” 

The two young women stood there in the hallway for several beats. Sadie kicked off her heels and folded her arms across her chest, chin turned up haughtily. 

“You could be the bride of adventure,” Anne said in a small voice. She received no response.

Anne turned away, hand on her own door. “I won’t report you to your dean,” she told Sadie. “But never again.”

Anne entered her room and let her back slump against her door, the girl’s cruel words ringing in her ears. She hung her head low, blinking away tears, and then scoffed.

_ Twenty years old and the great love of my life is already in my past,  _ she thought. 

She walked back to her desk, looking once more at the sketch, at the dark figure at the edge of the page, destined, she knew, to stay away. To make a spinster of her. 

She turned the paper over, unable to look on any longer. 

The next morning erupted in a flurry as the students hurried to pack their things, preparing for their impending departure after their morning classes. Anne found herself in the center of the excited chaos.

“Anne, have you seen my perfume? I can’t find it anywhere!” Cried Emily Gagnon.

“You brought it with you to the washroom, Emily!” Anne called back as she helped Opal Nelson, behind as ever, fold her blouses.

Then there was a blood curdling scream which made everyone stop a moment. They heard footsteps come bounding for Opal’s room.

“Anne!” Rebecca Booth screamed, pouncing on the redheaded young woman. “She has gone too far this time!” 

“Who?”

Rebecca scowled. “ _ Her.” _

With that, a blonde girl knocked genteely on the doorframe. “I found this telegram downstairs for you, Anne.”

As Anne read it over quickly, Rebecca continued.

“Myrtle has  _ packed  _ my hair rollers!  _ Again _ !”

“Has she?” Asked Anne distractedly.

“You have to make her open her trunk!” Rebecca whined.

“Bring Myrtle to me and we’ll see. Who here has seen Elizabeth?”

With a stomp, Rebecca left the room, a pleasantly plump girl coming in in her place.

“Here I am, Anne,” the girl said.

“Oh, no, Beth. I meant Elizabeth Reed. Has anyone seen Lizzie?”

A further parade of students made their way to Anne. When there were only fifteen minutes left before the first lessons of the day, Anne extricated herself and went to knock on the door of Lizzie Reed.

A small dark head poked out from a crack in the door. “Yes?” She prompted.

“Hello, Lizzie,” Anne said warmly. “I’ve just had a telegram from your mother. She says she missed her train and won’t be able to meet you this afternoon to bring you home for the holidays.”

Lizzie opened her door wider, eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean? How am I going to get home?”

“Well my own father will be coming late this afternoon to collect me. I’m sure he would be very happy to escort you to the train station on our way to the ferry,” Anne offered.

Not looking entirely pleased, the younger girl checked her watch and gawked at the time. Reluctantly she nodded and the two parted to collect their things for class. 

Anne turned her head down against the wind and rain as she crossed the courtyard to the humanities building. Once inside, she took off her cloche and did her best to shake out the wet. 

“Hello, Anne,” came a man’s voice.

“Oh, hello, Roy,” Anne said as she found him closing his umbrella. “Are you happy to see the term come to a close? It felt quite long for me.”

The two continued down the hall side by side. The young man frowned. “I’m certainly happy to never have to take another class with Dr. Fletcher.” Anne nodded in sympathy, remembering her own difficult experience in his class the previous year. “When are you going home?” He asked.

“This evening, after all the girls have left.”

“They still have you working? Even after classes have finished?” He questioned.

“Someone has to see them off, don’t they?” She said with a crooked brow. “Well, this is my stop.” She gestured to a classroom door on her right. “Safe travels, Roy.”

“Actually, Anne, if you have a moment, I wanted to ask you something.” He fiddled with his thumbs as Anne looked up, expectantly. “I wondered if perhaps your family could spare you for New Year’s?”

She looked highly sceptical. “Spare me for what?”

“I just… wanted to extend an invitation to you. To come visit me at my family’s house.”

Anne looked away, uncomfortable. “I don’t think I can be spared, Roy. My mother’s health, it’s precarious…”

He nodded, though he couldn’t make eye contact. “Or perhaps there’s another fellow,” he muttered. 

She stared at him blankly. “Safe travels, Roy,” she repeated before stepping into her classroom. 

At noon, she stood by the dormitory’s entrance, opening up for mothers and fathers; shaking hands with uncles and brothers, reintroducing herself as the Head of the dormitory, handing out cards with contact information should anyone need her during the holidays. 

By four, the sun had very nearly set and she had sent Barbara Armstrong on her way. She was left now only with Lizzie Reed, whom she lead up to her own small private sitting room. Anne moved to make tea while Lizzie plopped down, a general unhappiness about her.

The girl huffed.

“What is it, Lizzie?” Asked Anne as she set down the tray.

“When, exactly, is your father going to be here?” The girl demanded. Anne worked to stay composed. 

“Well, Prince Edward Island is a long ways away. He sent a letter last week saying he’d be here by dinner time.” Anne smiled, though she was not sure she meant the kindness. 

Lizzie slouched in her seat, not touching the treats Anne had prepared. While the older woman worked to clear the tea away, she heard Lizzie call.

“Anne! I think he’s here! Get your things!” 

Anne walked over to the window and looked out to the courtyard. Someone was indeed approaching. Anne squinted through the downpour.

In a moment, all the color had drained from Anne’s face.

“What’s the matter? Who is it?” Asked Lizzie urgently, but Anne’s attention did not deviate from the dark figure that crossed the courtyard, the figure that came into the light of the front door.

“ _ Who is it?”  _ Lizzie hissed.

“It’s Gilbert,” Anne breathed. “He’s come back to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all :)
> 
> I'm really having a good time writing this. You might get another two chapters in the next day or so before I have to return to real life and my final papers. I'd love to hear what you guys are thinking so far!
> 
> Best,  
> S


	6. Chapter 6

The window glass was cold as it rattled against his forehead, the seemingly endless gray before the rain stretching out before him on the train. Gilbert was very nearly home. 

He stood at the station for ten minutes, then twenty before his brother rounded the corner in their old Ford. Immediately, Gilbert could see that Bash looked even more tired than him. Impatient, Bash threw open the door.

“Get in,” he commanded. “We’ve got to go.” 

Gilbert slid into the truck. “What’s wrong?” 

Bash shook his head, already taking off down the road. “I’ve got a little kid with bronchitis that’s halfway to pneumonia and the only doctor on the island who will treat a black girl is on a ship to Philadelphia.”

“Dellie has pneumonia?” 

“I think so, I can’t be sure. All she does is cough, cough, cough.”

“Who’s with her now?” Gilbert asked, anxious now. “Marilla?”

Bash frowned, his voice lowering. “No,” he said. “Not Marilla. Rachel’s with her.”

“Rachel? Why not Marilla?”

Bash took a breath. “Last night Matthew Cuthbert had another heart attack.” 

Gilbert took a moment to speak. “Is he…?”

“He’s alive. At least, right now, he is.”

Gilbert sank down into his seat, breathing heavily. “Does she…?”

“I don’t think Anne knows, no,” Bash offered. “But we need to ask you a favor.”

“What?” Gilbert breathed. “What can I do?”

“Go get Anne,” Bash said simply, his eyes locked on the road.

“I can’t…” Gilbert said. “I can’t be the one to go.”

“Who else, then?” Bash asked, his voice growing harsh. “Who else in this family can go?”

“Family…?” Gilbert’s voice sounded far away.

“Listen: I know.” Bash didn’t look at Gilbert. “I know that you’re a grown man now, but I hope that you learned something from me, and from Mary, God rest her soul. I hope you learned to know a family when you see one. You’ve got me, and you’ve got Delphine, and you’ve got our Mary, your mother and father in heaven. And you’ve got the Cuthberts.” Bash let this sink in. Unprepared for this emotional assault, Gilbert turned his attention out the window. “Gilbert, are you listening?”

He nodded. “I am.”

“So you know that since you’re in a family, you have to put aside whatever has been wrong with you these past years, and you go get our Anne. Because Matthew can’t.”

Gilbert closed his eyes. “She doesn’t want me there, Bash.” He said flatly. “Anne is… she’s twenty now. It’s 1923. She’s made the journey so many times, surely she can do it alone.”

Bash scoffed. “You surprise me, brother,” he told Gilbert. “They probably don’t bother to print it in your Toronto papers, but young girls keep washing up in the river in Charlottetown. They’ve been finding them on the shores in Nova Scotia, too.”

Gilbert didn’t speak for a moment, picturing a flash of red hair and deep blue bruises on fair skin. “Let me check on Dellie,” Gilbert said carefully. “Then I’ll pack a small bag and I’ll head to Halifax.”

In Avonlea, Gilbert hurried into his childhood home, rushing past Rachel Lynde and up to his niece’s room. He could hear her weak cries for her father before he’d even opened her door. 

“Hello, Dellie,” he said gently as he stepped into the room. 

“Gilby?”

“Yes,” he said with a smile, taking a seat on the edge of her bed. “I hear you don’t feel well, Del. Can I check on you?”

Delphine nodded, raised on the understanding that her young uncle was something just short of a doctor. Gilbert reached for his treasured stethoscope, purchased for him by Dr. Oak so he could better aid in her clinic. 

Bash came to the door as Gilbert finished. “It isn’t pneumonia,” Gilbert told him. “She needs more pillows. Keep her propped up. And lots of water.” Gilbert stood then, heading to his own room. Bash followed, watching his brother transfer clothing from his trunk to a carpet bag. “I’ll get us rooms in Charlottetown.”

“Gilbert,” Bash said.

“I think we’ll be home by noon tomorrow.”

“Gilbert-”

“Can I take some money from the safe? I don’t know how much she’ll have on her-”

“Gilbert,” Bash said more forcefully this time. “You don’t have to leave right this minute. You’ve come a long way. Have something to drink, to eat-”

Gilbert shook his head. “No, I don’t want her to get on a ferry alone, thinking no one’s coming for her.” With that, he shut his bag and continued down the stairs, heading for the family’s safe.

As he took money, Bash pressed a cut of bread into his hand. Gilbert looked at his brother.

“Don’t be stupid,” Bash warned him. Gilbert nodded slowly, understanding that his brother’s words were far reaching.

Again, the two brothers piled into the Ford truck and headed back to the train station. 

Gilbert attempted to sleep on the train to Charlottetown, knowing that the journey over the water would be rough. Instead of resting, he was left thinking over what he could possibly say to explain his presence to this girl, no, woman, who so clearly did not want him. He ran a hand through his hair, breath shuttering as he considered what they would have to say to one another on the journey across the sea, from across the dinner and breakfast tables. On the drive home from the train depot. 

Would she be uncomfortable, knowing as she did that he loved her? Would she assume he still felt as he did at eighteen?

_ Well,  _ he thought,  _ she’d be right.  _

The ferry ride was as uncomfortable as he’d expected, the air cold out on the water. At the dock, he had to ask for directions to the university and hail one of the few cabs in that small seaside town. 

The silence in the cab was broken by the driver. “You don’t seem like you’re from around here,” he said, his own voice thick with an Old World accent. 

“I’m not,” Gilbert muttered.

“New York?” The driver asked. “Or Toronto?”

Gilbert considered his answer carefully. “New York,” he said finally. 

The driver was smug. “I knew it. What are you doing here?”

“There’s a girl,” Gilbert said coolly. 

“A girl? This far from home?” The stranger questioned.

“My family… we summer in Nova Scotia. She’s a local girl. I’ve come to bring her home for Christmas, to introduce her to my mother in New York. I’m going to marry her,” he declared. 

The driver whistled. “What do you want with one of our girls? They don’t make ‘em pretty enough for you in New York?”

“My mother introduced me to one of President Roosevelt’s nieces,” Gilbert continued. “But she didn’t hold a candle to my girl.”

“Well, she must really be special,” the driver said thoughtfully. “We’re coming up on the place now. How do you want me to act when she gets in? Don’t want me to tell her about the proposal? You’ve got a ring, don’t you?”

“Yes, I’ve got a ring,” Gilbert said hoarsely. “Don’t tell her anything. Pretend we’ve never spoken, that you and I know nothing about one another.” Gilbert thought how the latter wasn’t even a lie. 

The cab driver nodded solemnly, pulling up at the gated entrance of the university and allowing his passenger to step out. “I’ll be here.”

Gilbert turned his collar up at the rain, hurrying across the stone courtyard to the building marked as the women’s dormitory. He knocked hard on the door, hoping he could be heard over the pounding rain, huddled under the building’s eaves in a vain effort to keep dry. 

He needn’t have even knocked. She stood ready at the door, muscles tensed. She was quick to pull the door wide open, her mouth set in a hard line, jaw tight. She stood aside so he could come in.

He was silent as he took in her appearance for the first time since 1921. He saw how she’d kept her hair cropped, wearing it in the fashionable wave, and darkened to near-auburn-- by time or product, he couldn’t say. Her cheeks had become more hollow, losing much of the trace of childhood. He realized he was seeing her for the first time as a woman. 

Vaguely, he noted a younger, dark haired girl standing a few feet back, gawking at the older pair. 

“ _ Anne, _ ” the girl moaned. “Who  _ is  _ this?”

Anne didn’t look away as she answered. “This is my neighbor, Gilbert. Gilbert, this is Elizabeth Reed, one of my girls here.”

Reluctantly, he shifted his gaze away from Anne and towards Miss Reed, giving her a smile and nod. 

“Gilbert, where’s Matthew?” The question pulled him from his reverie. 

“Anne,” he coughed to clear his throat. “Could I speak to you privately for a moment?”

Clearly worried, Anne nodded once and directed Gilbert to the far corner of the dormitory’s main sitting room, the other girl’s gaze following them always. Anne looked at him expectantly. 

“I have some difficult news from home,” again, Gilbert cleared his throat before continuing. “But, to ease your mind, I’ll tell you now: you’ll see Matthew when you get home.” She said nothing. “Anne, I’ve been told Matthew has had another heart attack. This is why I’ve been sent to get you.”

She reached for the arm of a nearby chair, squeezing it tightly but did not fall into it. She took a moment to collect her thoughts. 

“We need to go, then.”

With that, the two returned to Lizzie. Gilbert watched as Anne worked to put a reassuring smile on her face. “Lizzie needed someone to accompany her to the train station. Would you mind if she tags along, Gilbert?”

Of course he didn’t, and he told them so. 

The three piled into the cab, with Anne taking her seat in the middle, her gaze fixed straight ahead, her breathing becoming increasingly heavy.

“Where to, sir?” The driver asked, his question clearly directed at Gilbert. 

“The train station,” he said smoothly. 

As the automobile began to glide forward, Elizabeth Reed watched as the fellow’s left hand found its way to Anne’s right knee, lingering there for a moment. Lizzie saw as each one of them turned to meet the other’s gaze, eyes equally wide. They both gave a barely perceivable nod, and just as quickly, the moment was over and the man’s hands were folded neatly in his lap, his gaze pointed out his window towards the sea. 


	7. Chapter 7

She watched him from across the white-clothed table, his confusion palpable. Winifred cleared her throat to discreetly get his attention, reaching for the correct fork with which to eat the cake. Gilbert took the hint, reaching for his identical utensil. 

“What is it like in Avonlea?” She asked, doing her best to set him at ease. 

He chuckled, picking up a piece of cake onto his fork. “I think Avonlea is something that’s  _ experienced  _ rather than explained,” he told her with a crooked smile. “If you’d force me to, though, I’d say it’s… communal. Your business is my business, or so it seems, my lot is yours. Or at least, that’s how it is when Avonlea is at its best.”

“So do you… oh, put out one another’s fires?” She asked, watching him once more.

“We do!” He said happily. “And we chip in when our neighbor’s crop fails.”

She considered this. “That’s very nice, not much like what I’m used to.”

“What are you used to? You never tell me where you’re  _ from _ ,” he complained half-heartedly. She blushed at this.

“Where do you think I’m from?” She challenged.

“Oh, not this again,” he teased. “Buckingham Palace.”

“You’re not even very inventive!” She said with a  _ tsk _ . “I grew up on an estate in Kent,” she told him simply. He nodded at this, lips set in a line as he fiddled with his food. She sighed. “You’re allowed to ask whose estate it was.”

“Whose?” He asked quietly.

“My uncle, Lord Hadley’s,” she told him. She saw how he bit the inside of his cheek.

“Why are you here, Winnie?” He finally asked.

She gave her practiced answer. “My father has always loved to travel.” Then she gave the truth. “There’s nothing left for us in England. We won’t be able to afford the death duties when my uncle passes. The house and the estate will have to go. We just left ahead of time.”

Gilbert looked this young woman over, trying to understand. “I don’t know much about this sort of thing, but it doesn’t seem like something a lot of people would talk about.”

“That’s true,” she admitted. “But I’m hardly the debutante I was in 1914, am I?” Demurely, she raised the tea cup to her lips. 

“I once went on a great odyssey,” he told her. “I know what it’s like to have places change you.”

“What was that like?” She wondered.

“I needed to leave so that I could be changed,” he told her, though he had never thought of it before then.

She nodded. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone,
> 
> I love you all so much for bearing with me. I know this is kind of a bizarre way to tell a story, but I hope you're enjoying it! I consider this a half-chapter. I have one more longer post to put up before I go to bed. I just know a lot of people are home and longing for content. Might as well fill the void.
> 
> Hope you're all well!  
> S


	8. Chapter 8

_ Dear Bernice, _

_ I’m writing this on the train so that I don’t forget even a  _ _ bit _ _ of what’s just happened. And so much has happened, I can hardly believe it! I’ll start from the beginning, as that is only sensible.  _

_ If you remember, my mother sent a telegram this morning (Wednesday, Dec. 12th) saying that she wouldn’t be able to meet me in Halifax to bring me home. It was Anne Shirley-Cuthbert that the telegram was addressed to, and so she offered to accompany me to the train station this afternoon with her father, who was meant to come collect her. _

_ And so after you and Barbara were off and happy with your own families, I was stuck in Anne’s cramped little sitting room with all her feathers and pine cones and silly things, waiting for her father to come collect us while the rain poured. There was no sign of anyone until a little after four in the afternoon, when I spotted a man in a dark coat crossing the courtyard (Anne does have a very good view for watching the front door, we must remember this in the future).  _

_ I called out to Anne, telling her that her father was here, but she can’t take my word for it and so decides to come see for herself.  _

_ Bernice, you should have seen the way her face looked when she glanced out the window! She was even paler than usual, and her jaw fell to the floor! _

_ I demanded to know what was happening; who was there? _

_ And do you know what she said to me? Bernice, she said, and this is an exact quote: “It’s Gilbert. He’s come back to me.” _

_ He’s come back to me! _

_ Right away, she rushed down the stairs, and I was close behind, absolutely unwilling to miss whatever was about to happen. There was a knock on the door of the dormitory, which Anne quickly answered, and in came a rain-drenched man, perhaps 22 or 23. He was as tall as your brother Leon but built more like that fellow Opal used to see, Theodore. His hair and eyes were dark, hair rather curly, actually. He wasn’t exactly my type, perhaps better suited to Barbara, but still far more than decently handsome. I’d say his best feature was his chin. It was uncommonly nice.  _

_ And how he  _ _ looked  _ _ at Anne! _

_ I don’t know what to make of it, Bernice.  _

_ I asked again who exactly he was, and she told me he was a neighbor, but didn’t bother to even look at me as she said it. She asked him “where’s my father?” and he pulled her aside to talk about it. I think something bad happened at home, which is sad, I suppose. _

_ We all went out to a cab, then. I was on one side, Anne in the middle, that fellow Gilbert on the other side. _

_ And you know how peculiar Anne is. She was upset, it was obvious. And I swear, Bernice, I saw everything I’m about to write: _

_ First, Gilbert put his hand on Anne’s knee in a  _ _ very _ _ familiar way.  _

_ Then, the two looked at each other, as though they had some bizarre telepathy. I saw them nod, and then they just looked away, his hand gone like it never happened.  _

_ They didn’t speak for the rest of the drive to the train station and then supposedly continued onto the port for the ferry to Prince Edward Island. _

_ In summary, I think Anne has some sort of sordid past with this fellow. She looked as though she would weep with relief when she said “he’s come back to me.”  _

_ I am still reeling from all of this. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Lizzie Reed _

_ P.S. Send this on to Barbara once you’ve read so she can read it and send it on. I think we should all know about this going into the start of the next term. _

_ Dear Barbara, _

_ I got this yesterday from Lizzie. Pass it on! _

_ Best, _

_ Bernice _

_ Dear Inez, _

_ Keep this going! _

_ -Barbara _

_ Emily, _

_ Send this on to Opal- she won’t be able to handle it! _

_ Love from, _

_ Inez _

_ Dear Opal, _

_ Wait until you see this! _

_ Merry Christmas, _

_ Emily _

_ Myrtle, _

_ Do you think this is all true? It seems like a lot for Anne. Write back to tell me what you think, but pass it on! _

_ -Opal _

_ Dear Rebecca, _

_ I’m sorry for packing your rollers again. I hope that this makes up for it. Don’t forget to send it on. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Myrtle _

_ Dear Pauline, _

_ You’ve always said that Anne looks like she’s been locked up in a room with nothing but her imagination for twenty years, but here is definitive proof that is not true.  _

_ From, _

_ Rebecca _

  
  


_ Hello Beth, _

_ I don’t know if you’ll really like this, but I think you’re the last girl to get it. If you can think of anyone else, pass it on! _

_ Happy New Year, _

_ Pauline Dover _

_ Dear Anne, _

_ I received this envelope this morning. It looks as though this letter has been going around for the past few weeks. I thought that you should know what it is all the others are saying. _

_ I hope that you’re able to enjoy your holidays, _

_ Beth Johnston _

_ P.S. I was very sorry to hear about your father. You and your family are in my prayers.  _

Anne read it all three times before she set the many papers down on the coffee table. With both her parents in sickbeds upstairs, Anne had all the privacy she could desire. She thought back to that day that Lizzie Reed has so carefully described. Was there a part of her that had hoped, on that day, that there could be some greater change on the horizon?

Instead, there was a silent journey home. 

There was a soft knock on the screen door. With a sigh, Anne stood to answer it. 

Gilbert stood a foot back on the porch, his head ducked. She unlocked the door for him and took a step back herself.

“Good morning, Anne,” he said gently. “Dr. Ward is on another house call today. He sent me to check on Matthew. He said he’ll try to come by tonight.” 

She nodded silently, ducking her own head, and went back to her perch on the couch and her view of the fields. Gilbert found his own way upstairs. 

A few minutes later she heard his soft footsteps coming back down. She looked up at him anxiously, though she didn’t rise.

“He’s doing all right,” he told her quietly. “A bit better than yesterday, from what Dr. Ward said.” Another nod, and then a beat. “How are you doing, Anne?”

_ Was he allowed to ask that _ , Anne wondered. Every time she stopped herself from writing to him, she reminded herself:  _ his silence is proof enough he doesn’t care. _

Instead she scrunched up her nose in that new way of hers and told him: “It hardly matters.”

She watched his face fall. “Are you excited for next term? It’s your last, isn’t it?”

She looked away from him. “I don’t know if I’m going to go back.”

“What?” He asked, shocked.

“I have to go check on the chickens, Gilbert,” she said with a sigh. “There’s been another fox.”

With that, she stepped around the young man, stepping into her boots and leaving quickly. Gilbert took a moment to look around the room and spotted many pages of paper spread out across the table in the living room. Checking quickly to make sure Anne was still occupied, he walked over to them, resolving to read them quickly (so better to understand Anne’s sudden indecision over her education!), but then stared at the words without seeing. 

_ And do you know what she said to me? Bernice, she said, and this is an exact quote: “It’s Gilbert. He’s come back to me.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I think this one is TRULY the last one for, like, sixteen hours or something.


	9. Chapter 9

“You are a very, very, very  _ bad  _ driver,” Gilbert said through gritted teeth, hands fisted around the edge of the leather seat. Terrified to turn his attention away from the road in front of them, still, he chanced a glance at Anne. She sat at the edge of the bench seat, close to the steering wheel, chin ducked low in concentration.

“And what evidence do you have of that?” She challenged, shoulders shaking as the left half of the vehicle rolled over a tree root. 

“For starters, you can’t stick to one side of the road-”

“No one’s coming! It’s  _ fine _ -” 

“-and you’ve hit every ditch from Avonlea to Carmody!”

“Well that’s because I don’t know how to position the truck to miss them, but I’m trying! Besides,  _ you’re  _ supposed to be directing me-”

“I  _ am _ directing you!” He hissed. “But you don’t do as I say!”

“That’s because I don’t know the dimensions of this thing! I don’t know where the truck ends and the ditch begins! I’m not used--” Her defense was cut off by the sound of a horn hollering. “What do they have to be so angry about?” She asked, angry herself. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“You can’t be going more than ten miles an hour, down from forty-five three minutes ago, of course they’re angry,” Gilbert said, rolling his eyes as the other automobile passed them. “Pull over,” he directed.

“What? No! That’s not fair: I’m doing fine, Gilbert!” She said loudly, her foot falling heavily on the gas pedal. 

“There’s no way you’re driving into town. You’re not parking--”

She scoffed. “I can park.”

“You just told me you don’t understand the dimensions of the truck, you’re not parking! If you crash, Bash will kill me. Pull over.”

With a huff, she did just that. He saw as she blushed while stepping out of the truck, a horse and buggy passing by. As they passed one another at the front bumper, he bumped his elbow against hers playfully. She looked up at him.

“You didn’t really do  _ so  _ bad. I’ll let you drive into town another time,” he told her. She shrugged and swung into the passenger seat. 

Calm immediately returned to him as he took his spot in the driver’s seat. 

He’d surprised her earlier that June morning, showing up at Green Gables in the truck while the family was still eating their breakfast. He had a few things to do in Carmody that day, would Anne like to come? He’d asked. Really, time to himself had become unwelcome since Mary’s passing. He’d spent the past few weeks searching for distractions. 

He waited on the porch while she changed, thinking it odd as she had already been dressed. She reemerged in a blue cotton suit, her skirt to her ankles as the women had worn them since the middle of the war. He raised an eyebrow at her sudden grown up appearance

She put on a tense smile. “Shhhhh….” She said as she hopped down from the porch, the single braid down her back jumping to follow her. He complied, not saying anything more about her appearance and following her back to his and Bash’s Ford. She stood in front of the automobile.

“Please,” she said simply.

“No,” he said, passing her by and going to unlock the driver’s door.

“Last time you said ‘next time,’” she reminded him. He bit his lip.

“How can you remember that, but can’t remember to come to the fence at four?” He grumbled.

“It’s next time,” she told him again.

“It is next time.” Reluctantly he walked back around, allowing his friend to take her seat behind the wheel. 

His only discomfort now came from his promise to let her try again. 

“I have an appointment at the bank,” he told her as they drove down Carmody’s main street. “What will you do while I’m gone?” 

“I’ll be in the bookstore,” she told him quickly.

He shook his head. “There’s no bookstore in Carmody.”

“You obviously don’t even read the school paper anymore, Gilbert.”

“That’s fair,” he admitted. “I’ve been busy in Charlottetown lately.” She saw him blush and felt a sinking feeling in her stomach, but did not push the matter further.

  
  


“Just last week I wrote an entire article about how it had just opened. I’d written Mr. and Mrs. Levinson, the proprietors, for a sample list of the things they’re selling and their prices. I’m going to go in today so that I can write a follow up in the next edition,” she said proudly. 

“I promise to read the next one.” He parked the truck down the street from the bank. “I shouldn’t be long,” he told her. “Come back to find me when you’re done.” With that they parted.

After two hours had passed, Gilbert returned to the spot and searched for blue and red, to no avail. He began to wander the street, still looking, eventually asking a pedestrian for directions to the bookstore. 

In the store front’s wide windows, he saw her, standing on a chair with a gaggle of children at her feet, some too young to even be in school, a book in her hand. He watched as she closed the book to applause, stepped down, and then grabbed another. She resumed her spot atop the chair as Gilbert stepped into the store.

_ “Amory Blaine inherited from his mother every trait, except the stray expressible few, that made him worthwhile,”  _ he heard her read. The children looked on with great attention. _ “His father, an ineffectual, inarticulate man with a taste for Byron and a habit of drowsing over the Encyclopedia Brittanica, grew wealthy at thirty through the death of two elder brothers, successful Chicago brokers, and in the first flush of feeling that the world was his, went to Bar Harbor and met Beatrice O’Hara. In consequence, Stephen Blaine handed down his height of just under six feet and his tendency to waver at crucial moments, these two abstractions appearing in his son Amory. For many years he hovered in the background of his family’s life, an unassertive figure with a face half-obliterated by lifeless, silky hair, continually occupied in ‘taking care’ of his wife, continually harassed by the idea that he didn’t and couldn’t understand her.” _

Gilbert stepped into the children’s reading circle, but Anne did not notice.

_ “But Beatrice Blaine!” _ She read. “ _ There was a woman! Early pictures-” _

He coughed. “Anne.” She looked up. All of the children followed her gaze. Taken aback by the attention, all Gilbert managed was “It’s lunchtime.” 

For this suggestion, Gilbert was booed. 

Blushing, Anne worked to quiet the children, hurrying over to meet Gilbert as small hands moved to wrap around her ankles. 

“So I see they were clean out of Beatrix Potter?” Gilbert asked casually as the two left the store, boys and girls pounding indignantly at the glass as the two passed by. 

“Anyone can read Beatrix Potter to a bunch of children,” Anne said. “But who’s going to stir their emotions with fantastical prose? That book is new, I haven’t seen it before. I quite liked it.”

“By that Fitzgerald fellow?” He asked as they turned a corner. 

“That’s it,” she told him.

“Will you write about your reading circle for the paper?” He asked, nudging her.

“Maybe,” she said. “I’ll have to think about it. I really want my next article to be perfect.”

“Does this mean you’ve changed your mind? That you’ll be a journalist instead of a teacher?” 

“Oh, who’s to say?” She asked. “I hardly know anymore.” She went ahead of him then, walking backwards so she could still speak to him. “Is it vain to say I want to be great?”

He shook his head. “You’ll be great,” he said definitively. “No matter what.” 

“Perhaps I’d like to be an Egyptologist. I read about one in a magazine at the dentist last month. He spends five months of the year digging around in the sand, trying to find some old king-- he particularly likes the mummified cats-- and the other seven teaching. Or, hmm, do you think I’ve aged out of being a dancer? I’d so like to be graceful someday.” She did her best pirouette, balancing on the toes of her boots. “I could be good someday, don’t you think? Gilbert?” 

He watched her search out his eyes, looking for an answer. But this simple loss of focus disrupted her dramatically, her left ankle giving way before Gilbert could warn her. He saw her mouth form a surprised little “o” before she tumbled over into the street. 

He was quick to react, stepping into the street and waving his arms to divert oncoming traffic away from Anne before hurrying over to her crumpled form.

“Are you all right?” He asked. 

“Maybe,” she said, still looking surprised. He moved to help her up, finding his fingers came away bloody.

“Anne, your hands are bleeding,” he said. She put her weight on him, her ankle seemingly hurt.

“True,” she muttered.

He helped her hobble to a bench in front of the barber. “Put your foot up,” he directed. 

Sitting sideways, she put her foot with the lame ankle up onto the bench. Gilbert sat at the other end, working to untie her boot.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” she told him.

“You didn’t think your finger was broken last winter,” he reminded, turning her ankle over in his hand. “But you’re right this time, I think.”

“Told you,” she said, voice smug.

“Wait here: I’m going to get the truck. Keep your foot up!”

He returned soon after. Reaching under the seat of the truck, he pulled out a small first aid kit. They sat together on the bench, noses close, as he dabbed at her cut palms. He found himself working hard to push back memories of a similar encounter between him and another young woman with bloodied hands. 

“How do you do this?” She asked him, her breath sweet on his face, voice low.

“Do what?” He tried hard to focus on his task. Why was it difficult?

“You just jump into action whenever someone needs you. You don’t ever need to think. And you never fall through on the execution-- that seems to be all I ever do.” 

“You don’t always fall through on things,” he told her, trying to meet her gaze, but she looked away. “You’re wonderful.”

She wore half a smile, turning her attention back to him. “You’re going to be the best doctor, Gil,” she told him. “I’m proud of you.”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing to be proud of yet.”

“It’s not that far off. I know… I know it might not be to the Sorbonne, but there are so many wonderful universities, surely one will see straight and give you a scholarship.”

“Well,” he felt his insides constrict. “Maybe it will be the Sorbonne.” 

“What do you mean?” She asked, brows knitted tightly together.

“In Charlottetown, I’ve become… acquainted with a lady, and her family has connections to the Sorbonne.” 

“I don’t understand,” she murmured. “Is this lady a sort of benefactress?”

“No,” he said quietly. “No, she’s not.”

Gilbert watched as a near-understanding descended on Anne. “A lady…” she breathed. She slowly moved her hands away from his. They sat like that a moment, neither daring to ask more or say more. They watched an elderly woman walk by. “And you say she can help you get to the Sorbonne?” Anne finally ventured, tone bizarrely casual. 

“She can.” His voice was quiet, everything he said was a question.

She felt a muscle in her cheek twitch. “That’s wonderful.”

“Is it?” 

“You’ll be a gentleman,” she said, a small smile coming to her lips. “A real scholar. A doctor who can save people. It’s wonderful.”

“So you think I should?” He was nothing more than a whisper.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, a nervous chuckle on every word. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

She did not know how to respond to that; she was only sixteen. “I think I should go home now,” she told him, though all she wanted was to be far, far away from anyone-- him most of all.

He helped her back into the truck and they began their journey home, the silence thick. He never thought of something to say. 

The truck crawled up to the front of Green Gables, the sun shining bright over head. It was the longest day of the year, but Anne found herself imagining a darkness enveloping the entire neighborhood, longing for nighttime.

After several moments of simply idling in the drive, Gilbert removed the key and opened his door. Slowly, deliberately, he walked over to the passenger door to help Anne down, careful to make sure she needn’t use her cut hands.

She walked away from his grasp, instead leaning her weight on the porch rail. She stopped when she reached the final step. She turned back to him, but could not bear to look at him. She settled her gaze on a spot in the yard beyond. 

“All you have to do is marry her?” She asked. “To get it?”

“To get what?”

“Everything,” she said. “Everything you want.” She waited several moments, but no response came. “Please don’t ask me to stop you,” she said finally. 

“Anne…” he said, taking a step forward. But she turned back towards the front door.

“Please,” she said quietly. “Don’t.” With that, Anne went inside her home. Gilbert stood there in broad daylight, a sinking feeling engulfing him. 

He thought he may very well have lost something that could not be regained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, we all know Anne can't drive. I know it, you know it. Let's accept it as canon.
> 
> Second, I think the time has come for me to admit to myself and everyone involved that this story has been super subconsciously shaped by folklore, so thanks Taylor. I know some people give music suggestions with their fics, so if that's something you like to do, just go listen to the long pond sessions version of "cardigan," "the one," "my tears ricochet," "august," and "invisible string" on repeat (especially cardigan). You could also read my other fic, Peter Losing Wendy, because apparently this is a permanent state for me. Also consider listening to "This Empty Northern Hemisphere" by Gregory Alan Isakov, but only because it's good. 
> 
> Third, I really was a little hesitant with this. I gave the Avonlea kids credit and assumed they would know better than to go share a bottle of alcohol and party around a bonfire at the ruins during the tail end of the Spanish flu epidemic, but I still needed a scene where Gilbert would half tell, half ask Anne to marry Winifred. I also knew there wouldn't be much opportunity for Anne to have met Winnie, because in my little head I'm assuming there would be no fair that year. 
> 
> So this is what we get. 
> 
> I'm going to try to work on one more chapter tonight, and possibly post it tomorrow, but then I'll have to go back into grad school mode for a couple weeks. I have my doubts that we'll see many updates until the quarter is over, which will be the second week of December.
> 
> I hope you're all well!   
> -S


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone!
> 
> Does this chapter remind you of anything? I'd love to hear your responses :)
> 
> I also wanted to drop a link to a Discord that myself and some other AWAE writers/readers are in. It was created back in March during lockdown, and I know a lot of people are back in a similar situation as then (I know I am). I thought it might be nice for people to have access to. We talk about fics and whatever else we want, so feel free to stop by!
> 
> https://discord.gg/yHXvEF6D

Winifred told him to bring a bouquet with him when he came to dinner; her father told him to bring a ring. And so, with a small velvet pouch in his pocket, he pulled blossoms from apple trees. Together they were the tokens of a boy with little else to offer. 

The conversation at the table was convivial. He saw as Winifred threw him cues throughout the evening, the last of which was a mouthed “stay” as dessert plates were cleared away. He watched, anguished, as she and her mother rose gracefully from their seats and made for the parlor. In their place came a maid with a glass bottle filled with amber. 

Mr. Rose smiled warmly, pouring a glass for both himself and Gilbert. The young man touched the glass to his lips, let the liquid cool his mouth, but could not bring himself to drink-- as warm as the Roses were, he could not shake the feeling he was in a snake pit, his wits his only defense. 

“I’ve sent word to my friends at the Sorbonne,” Mr. Rose began. “They think you’ll make a very good candidate.” He raised his glass, meeting Gilbert’s with a  _ clink.  _ “How’s your French?”

“Poor,” Gilbert admitted. 

“Well, Winifred’s is excellent. It’s something you two can work on together in Paris.”

At this, Gilbert nodded vaguely. 

The older man continued to make small talk until, mercifully, he stood, saying it was time to join the ladies. 

“Perhaps a game of cards?” Suggested Mrs. Rose.

“I hardly think that Mr. Blythe wants to waste his night on cards,” said Winifred..

“How about a story?” Asked Mr. Rose as he joined his wife on a sofa. “Winifred?” Her parents looked to her in anticipation.

“Oh, I suppose,” she replied, pulling herself forward in her armchair, her back straight, hands delicately folded. “Shall we have a ghost story?” She asked, though she did not wait for an answer. 

“The year was 1840, three years before the fourth Viscount Hadley had come into possession of Leominster Park by way of a lucky hand of cards, and Leominster Park was still owned by the Yorke family, headed by the second Marquess of Clougham.

“This earl had little in common with his father, the first marquess, a hero of the Napoleonic wars, except that they both lacked children: each had only a single son. The second marquess’ son, the Earl of Monmouth, was called Robert. He was a fine fellow, I suppose, until he wasn’t. What you most need to know about him is that, during his years at Cambridge, Lord Monmouth was deeply in love. 

“She was a young woman of exceptional beauty, though her origins were opaque, at best. She was a ward of Lord Somers, who raised her as a daughter and provided for her dowry. Uncommon for the time, I know, but she was called Penelope. From what I’ve heard, everyone who knew her attested that she was sweet and good. She loved Robert, for what that’s worth.

“As Lord Monmouth finished his studies, the families made preparations for their marriage. It would have to be in Kent, as the marriage was only barely passable and not something that should particularly be celebrated in the streets, if you understand me. 

“Still, a fair crowd came to see the two exchange vows on that final day in August. I’ve been told he looked like a devil, he was so handsome. And she was light as the sun. Everything went as it should. Prayers were said, and the vicar led Penelope through her vows, pledging herself to him. The bride, then, looked at her groom expectantly. But he said nothing, not at first. 

“You can imagine, the vicar prodding him on. ‘Well, young man,’ he must have said. ‘Out with it.’ All the while, good, sweet Penelope must have been standing there, urging him on herself, doing what she could to keep a smile on her face.

“And then Robert spoke. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

“‘What?’ She must have said, because what else is there to say? ‘What are you asking me?’

“He would have merely repeated himself. ‘I can’t,’ he would have said. And then he stepped down from the altar, walking back up the aisle. The room would have been silent as they watched him retreat, the only sound that of the heavy oak chapel doors opening. And all the farmers and their wives, all the storekeepers and innkeepers, the miller and the baker and all the rest would have been waiting outside to see the young earl and his bride emerge as husband and wife. What they must have thought when it was only him!

“Perhaps the doors to the chapel stayed open, and they could all see straight down to the altar where Penelope stood in shock, Lady Somers leaving her pew and hurrying to the girl’s side, pulling the bride’s veil back down, knowing before Penelope knew herself that she would need privacy and giving her the smallest modicum that could be given. 

“And would she have taken those first numb, stumbling steps to follow him? Would Lord Somers come then, would he put an arm around her shoulders, reminding her to show dignity? Would that have been the first thing anyone would have said to her?

“I think she took those steps, because I suppose I would have if I were her. I imagine a weak voice calling out: ‘Robert, no.’

“I wonder if she was the next person to leave the chapel, or the last? In any case, Lord and Lady Somers plopped her back into a decadent carriage and drove on, back to Leominster Park to collect their things and then leave-- to return to their own fortress where they could draw up the bridge and lock themselves up with their shame until something equally distressing happened to another nice girl with a similar background, so that this jilt could be nearly forgotten.

“Somewhere on the drive, Penelope must have asked to be let out, to be allowed to walk back to the house. She removed her veil and the Somers tiara, even took off her silk slippers, and began her march in what should have been privacy, but the gamekeeper and the gardeners and the townspeople who had followed out of insatiable curiosity all saw this beautiful young woman, saw how she wept for her life, saw her trip once over the hem of her own wedding gown and then rise, but not so tall as before. 

“No one saw her enter the house. They were all sure of that, but, surely, she must have. 

“Penelope went on to live a long life. She married Lord Somers agent more than a decade later and had no children. She died in Wales in 1894. 

“So, why was she seen every year before then on the final day in August making her shameful, lonesome march through the grounds of Leominster Park? My guess is that whatever part of herself that she valued most died that day, the only ghost that could matter left to haunt the place, forcing Lord Monmouth to watch, to  _ look,  _ year after year, in a way he had escaped doing on their wedding day.”

There was a silence once she had finished.

“Is this true?” said Gilbert finally. “Is Leominster Park haunted?”

“ _ I  _ never saw the ghost of Penelope while I was growing up there,” announced Mrs. Rose.

“Well she didn’t haunt the place for  _ you _ , Mama: she did it for Monmouth,” Winifred said with a yawn. “Perhaps the true tragedy is she didn’t realize he wasn’t there to see.”

“A true waste of time,” said Mr. Rose jovially. He clapped his hands then and rose to his feet. “It’s getting quite late. Why don’t we allow the young people a moment’s privacy, dear?” He offered a hand down to his wife.

Gilbert’s hands became clammy as he watched the pair leave, understanding what the family hoped would happen next. 

“I hope I haven’t scared you so badly you won’t sleep, Mr. Blythe,” Winifred said with a cheeky grin, pulling his attention away from their retreating forms. 

“It was… disturbing,” he muttered, foot tapping nervously. 

“It was always a hit in France,” she said casually, though Gilbert had slowly come to understand that Winifred held no casual feelings or views regarding her service in the Great War. “I thought I’d try it on you.”

“It was a hit,” he said weakly.

“To think,” she said. “This time next year, I may be in France again.” She looked at him expectantly then. When nothing transpired, she went on: “Though Paris will certainly be a welcome change from the France I know so well.” Still, he said nothing. “A friend I’d had, another nurse, had this saying: ‘c’est la vie, c’est la morte.’ I’m always so tempted to say it to my parents. I’m… glad, that chapter is coming to a close.”

“I’m sorry, Winifred,” he said, rising suddenly. “But I’ve remembered that my brother needs my help very early tomorrow.” He took one of her hands in his, kissing the back. She looked on, shocked. “I’ll see you soon.”

He took his leave, feeling absurd as he opened the door to the Ford, his breathing heavy. 

When he returned home, he found his brother waiting for him.

“Well?” Bash said. “What happened?”

Gilbert merely shook his head.

“I thought you were smart,” Bash commented, following Gilbert up the stairs to his bedroom. “You must know that it’ll do you no good to chase two girls.”

Gilbert stopped midstep. He turned back to face his brother. “What do you mean, two girls?”

Bash’s eyes widened. “Oh, no: you’re too old. I’m not spelling it out for you.” The older man put his hands up in surrender, turning to go back down stairs. Gilbert put a hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t mean Anne.” 

“No, I mean Queen Victoria, dead in her grave.”

“Bash-” 

“I told Mary, I wash my hands of this. I promised I would stop bringing her up-”

“Bash,” Gilbert called out. “Bash, I’ve already told Anne about… about Winifred. About… what I would have to do to go to the Sorbonne.”

“Yeah? And what’d she say? Let me guess, if you phrased it as ‘what I have to do to make my dreams come true’: did she say ‘why not?’”

Gilbert stilled. “Yes,” he told Bash. “That’s what she said.”

Bash blinked and then shook his head. “You are a fool and if you keep up like this, you’re going to end up married to the wrong one.”

Gilbert watched as his brother stalked away, listening to the door of his first floor bedroom close. Feeling very old, Gilbert ascended the stairs once again, undressing slowly. He reached into his pocket and carefully set down the little velvet pouch, right beside the permanently open letter.

_ Dear Gilbert Blythe, _

_ Have you read Wuthering Heights? It is my sincere hope that you have, as I am requesting your presence at the fence in front of the small elm tree at the bottom of that large hill in your orchard at 3:00 tomorrow afternoon… _

  
  


He looked out his window to the exact spot she had described and wondered if Anne could ever be persuaded to join him there again. 


	11. Chapter 11

From his bedroom window overlooking his family’s orchard, Gilbert watched as the summer slipped away. His excuses for his absence from Charlottetown were quickly running thin and dry. He woke up on the morning of August 18th realizing he’d run out of time, spending weeks considering the living ghost story which Winifred had woven the night he’d come to dinner. 

She was quite the storyteller, enrapturing him long after the story was finished. One afternoon over tea, there had been the story of the cat rescued by the English soldier from the smoke of the battlefield, shot at by the enemy and then punished by his commanding officer for being so reckless, how he’d learned French so he could speak to the creature, how he shared his rations, which were never enough for him alone. As Winifred told it, the animal left the soldier on New Year’s Day in 1917. 

On a walk along the coast she told the story of a great crossing from Denmark to Scotland that never quite made it. This was sometime after Mary had her head rudely separated from her neck and after her son James had his moment at Scone but before he had ascended to the English throne when good Queen Bess kicked the bucket, finally. His Danish wife took her place on the sea, but it raged, and so the queen and lowly crew alike were at the mercy of the elements as they steered desperately for shore. They lived, but the disruption agitated King James. Naturally, he suspected unnatural, malicious forces. He was sure an evil magic had threatened the queen’s voyage, and thus began a large, horrendous witch hunt. Winifred offered no conclusion. 

But it was the story of the bride that he found the most difficult to reconcile with. The jilted lover, left for being unknowable. Whenever he thought of it, he was left with the barely controllable urge to  _ leave _ . Leave what, he didn’t know, but he was profoundly uncomfortable as he laid in his bed in broad daylight. 

Without a knock, his brother entered his bedroom.

“What are you doing?” Bash asked, but it was hardly a question.

“Thinking,” Gilbert said softly, turning to lie on his back, gaze unfocused put directed towards the ceiling above. 

“You’ve been thinking for a month,” Bash told him. “Maybe it’s time to start talking about those ideas of yours.”

“I haven’t got any ideas,” Gilbert said, his voice flat and tired. 

“I’ll tell you an idea I have,” Bash said, pulling his brother’s desk chair over to his bedside and taking a seat. “And we’ll only talk about one of those girls you’ve been chasing.”

“I’m not chasing two girls, Bash.”

“All right. You’re not. So it’s just Winifred… and her goddamn parents.”

Gilbert sat up. “What about her parents?”

“You don’t think they want this a little too much? Want  _ you  _ a little too much?” Gilbert stared at him, jaw tight. “I just think it’s odd, how they’ve got this fancy daughter, and they’ve got their titles--”

“ _ They  _ don’t have titles,” Gilbert corrected. “Winifred just has… an uncle. And a grandfather. And cousins.”

Bash waited for Gilbert to finish his justification. “You couldn’t pay me to care about who has what, all I know is what you have. And it’s not what they do.” Gilbert made no argument. “I know it’s slim pickings out there for girls her age, but, Gilbert, my brother: why does it have to be you? They’ll shine you up and send you off to Paris? For what?”

“Bash, you don’t know them--”

“Neither do you,” he said frankly. “You met them in March.” 

“I know it’s fast,” Gilbert began. “But I think this is how these things work. I think-”

“You think time is running out to make a decision,” Bash said sharply. “And it is. You can either choose Winifred Rose, and her parents, or you can choose everything and anything else. There. I’ve made it simple for you.”

Bash stood then, patting Gilbert’s shoulder once before turning out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

The sun had begun to set, throwing shadows across Gilbert’s bed. Finding the dim light unbearable, the young man rose for the first time in hours, crossing the room to his west-facing window.

He stared for a while into the bright yellow light and was reminded of how Winifred had described the bride, Penelope.

_ Light as the sun _ , she’d called her. 

_ Not so different from Winifred _ , Gilbert thought with a humorless chuckle.  _ Shining impenetrably bright like a star, blinding you to the darkness behind.  _

He thought of Winifred’s smile, of the playful glint in her eye, and considered what was behind both. Was it an immense sadness for the home she had lost, of a world left behind? And there was the war, which fell like ocean waves behind every story she told, pulling and crashing over her. He wondered if such a sea could pull others in, could crash over  _ his _ head as well if he stood with her, side by side. 

He did not blame her for this, he knew that even then. 

The sun continued on its track, setting even deeper below the tree line beyond the fence in silence. Even with his window closed, he could hear the crash of a distant door. He saw her then, in her long white linen skirt, hair in a single braid, marks of the last moments between childhood and womanhood. She took bounding steps towards the boundary line that separated the two properites, a book clasped tightly to her chest with both hands. 

He saw as she stood in front of the fence, looking through the orchard for a minute or two before settling herself onto the ground. She laid on her back and held the book up above her face, using it to block the sun so she could continue on with reading. 

It was a small thing, and needed only last for a minute or so, because with Anne came true sunset. It was more spectacular than any he could remember. The world seemed aglow. 

He thought on his friend now, thought of her difficult childhood. Of her hardwon light.

_ But not like Winifred’s _ , he thought.  _ Not blinding. Not hiding a dark ocean behind. _

He looked on a bit longer, watched as she pulled her red braid forward so she could run her fingers down the plait. He remembered Anne’s poem, the one she’d recited in the open air school that winter, voice slightly muffled by her scarf, which wound tighly over her mouth and nose. 

Did he misremember? Or, could it have been the same identical story? Of a bride jilted on her wedding day, wandering through the park in tragedy? 

Yes, Anne had woven a tragical romance, but unlike it’s twin story, it was not given to mask a tragedy, not composed to numb. When Anne spoke, she did it so others would feel. 

_ A hardwon light _ , he thought again. 

Suddenly Gilbert turned to find his suit jacket, to put on his shoes. To leave. He moved on instinct now, but as he turned on the old Ford, drove down the road, pulled into the drive of the big house in Charlottetown, he was controlled by a single thought.

  
_ She brings purple-pink skies.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're about to get a second chapter today!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! IMPORTANT! I posted another chapter just before this simultaneously! Don't forget to read that :)

He hadn’t been home in nearly two years. Not since Christmas of ‘21, when she turned to look over her shoulder, back at him. That was all it took to amplify his anguish, his loneliness, which festered for all of those months. Before, he had been haunted by the image of Anne in her braid and linen skirt, enveloped by that magnificent sunset. Now, his mind lingered on that shy, pale face, framed by cropped red hair, looking at him as though willing him towards something. 

The Christmas tree in the boarding house’s sitting room went up that afternoon, and he felt compelled to leave. 

Autumn had settled early that year and stayed only a short while, with winter cruelly taking her place. Frost hung in the air while snow dusted the roads. He walked.

_ Was there a trick to it?  _ He wondered.  _ An easier way of getting on with it?  _ An early darkness set in as he wandered further into the city. He began to hear the noises of nightlife, the voices calling between friends and lovers, the music emanating from dancehalls and bars. He saw more women, dressed in jewel tones like the war widows, wrapped in their furs. As bright as the women appeared, the men matched them in darkness. After a few blocks, he followed one group into a dancehall, pulled by the call of the music. 

  
  


_ Gee, but it's hard to love someone _

_ When that someone don't love you _

_ I'm so disgusted, heartbroken, too _

_ I've got those down-hearted blues _

He took his seat as the song rang out.

_ Trouble, trouble, I've had it all my days _

_ Trouble, trouble, I've had it all my days _

_ It seems that trouble's going to follow me to my grave _

A young woman took the stool beside Gilbert, a scowl on her face. 

“You men are  _ wretched  _ creatures,” she said vehemently, taking a shot of something clear. 

“I’m sorry?” Gilbert said, turning to her now, for a moment aghast. Heart stopped, he saw that she wore her strawberry blonde hair in one of the shortest bobs he’d ever seen, her delicate, freckled nose flared in anger. It took a moment for him to understand that this woman was simply a poor imitation and not another ghost. 

_ It may be a week, it may be a month or two _

_ It may be a week, it may be a month or two _

_ But the day you quit me honey, it’s coming home to you _

She turned to him sharply. “Do you see that fellow over there?” She whispered, jutting her chin towards the dance floor where a man with red shoes danced with a tall brunette. “He’s supposedly  _ my  _ beau.”

Gilbert kept watching the pair dance. “Oh,” he said.

“Yes, he’s absolutely  _ wretched _ ,” she repeated. “What do you suppose he’s sees in  _ her  _ but not in me?” She’s asked him.

“Oh, I don’t know, Miss. I’m not good at this sort of thing.” He took a sip of his beer, trying to pull away from the conversation. She wouldn’t allow it.

Instead she studied him carefully. “Perhaps you aren’t,” she declared finally. “Oh, won’t you ask me to dance?” She said, a wide grin on her face, pulling on his sleeve. He wondered if she was perhaps a tad manic.

“Miss, I’m--” He’d begun to shake his head, put she pulled at his sleeve again. 

_ I got the world in a jug, stopper in my hand _

_ I got the world in a jug, stopper in my hand _

_ I’m going to hold it until you didn’t come under my command _

“Please, I  _ so  _ hoped to dance tonight,” she plead.

Again, she pulled. Dutifully, reluctantly, Gilbert stood and the two walked side by side to the dancefloor. The woman ensured that her beau, or former beau, could see. She lead him through the fast-paced steps, all new and unfamiliar to him. He thought of the last time he danced, in the schoolhouse as Mrs. Lynde looked on, spinning with all of the children he’d grown up with, pulling  _ her  _ out from the lot of them.

“What’s your name then, Mister?” She asked him after a few minutes.

“Gilbert,” he told her. “What’s yours?”

“Joan!” She called above the blaring trumpet. 

Joan. Another monosyllabic name, so similar to the one constantly at the tip of his tongue. He nodded and they said little else, dancing to exhaustion. The doors threatened to close with them still inside. The two walked out to the street. Her fellow let them go.

“Want to come over for a little while?” She asked him, voice sickly sweet. His breath caught. 

He had never been in this situation before. Not once. He wondered if it would be so very bad, so  _ wretched _ , as Joan says, for him to allow himself to be seduced by this woman. 

He could never have what he wanted. He had hoped, in vain, for longer than he was proud to admit, that she would  _ write _ . That she would say something. That she could miss his friendship, at least. But no. His heart had disgusted her, perhaps angry that he’d come so close to leaving her behind when he loved her, and only her. She was disturbed that she could have such a fickle confidant, even if she didn’t want his love. She’d cast him off. He could not fault her for this. 

So could he allow himself this? He knew, had known for years, that he could love no other. But surely this was something different, something to see him through to the days ahead…

He nodded once and let Joan wrap her hand around his arm, leading him through the city streets, still silent.

They ascended a rickety staircase and entered a small kitchen with three doors leading off of it. He heard a cough and stilled.

“It’s just Hattie,” Joan whispered. “She’s got a cold. Don’t worry about her.”

She lead him through one of the doors to a small room with a dresser, cluttered with jewelry and clothing, and a double bed pushed into one corner. 

Joan smiled, placing her hands on his lapel. “What do you like?” She asked him.

“I don’t know,” he breathed. She laughed once at this.

“You don’t know this, don’t know that. You’re not particularly clever. It’s a good thing your handsome.”

“Yes,” he muttered. “Maybe.”

She began to remove his tie, to unbutton his shirt. His hands fell lame at his sides. 

She raised an eyebrow. “Gilbert, what are you doing?” Her voice was an accusation.

Again, his breath caught sharply. He raised his hands, as though in defense. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t do this.”

He took a stumbling step backwards, knocking over a lamp, searching desperately through the darkness for the door handle.

As he yanked it open, he saw across the kitchen to the other bedroom, where a small blonde stood in her flannel nightdress, arms crossed in disapproval.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered to the other woman, Hattie, as he made his exit.

He stumbled back onto the street. Toronto was at its darkest point in the night. He tucked his hands deep into his pockets, longing for a cab. Longing for peace.

Safe in his room at the boarding house, he slumped into his desk chair, staring out into the blistering dark. His hands moved without thinking, pulling out paper and pen.

_ Dear Anne, _ he found himself writing, but his handwriting looked poor, and he could not bare to leave this barely-written word staring back at him in such an ugly way. He tried again, with better results.

_ Dear Anne, _

_ I am wretched.  _

_ I have fears which I can scarcely put in writing, which I can barely name. I have ghosts, all of them, you, which follow me around this city. They pursue me day and night, growing stronger, more visceral, with each passing season.  _

_ Yet they are all such poor imitations, gas, mere light and shadows in the ether when I compare them to you. This, I can hardly stand to do. But I cannot stop myself. This is the world of a man with no hope, I suppose. _

_ I have rarely sought comfort, believing that there is none to be found, nothing that could satisfy. Not even the piecemeal way so favored among those like myself. But tonight I suppose I found it all so unbearable that I decided to give my heart a new means for feeling heavy. _

_ I still think about that last letter I left you. I never meant for it to offend you so, for the love I admitted to come across as a burden for you to bear. It is mine alone.  _

_ “You are the fond object of my affection and my desire. You and you alone are the keeper of the key to my heart,” I remember writing. Then, I was little more than a boy. I had no way of knowing how very long life is.  _

_ I think back on our childhoods together, when you were my friend and I was yours, and I write this letter (which you will never read) with that in mind. Yes, you have been silent, but surely you are not hateful. Surely you still have the will to care for your old friend, if I were to tell you that I am low. _

_ And I am so low.  _

_ I am, as ever, yours, _

_ Gilbert _

Eventually Gilbert looked up from the letter, his room now filled with warm light. He stood to look out his window, back to the east, towards the sunrise. Towards Avonlea, the last place he had seen her, and towards Nova Scotia, where he knew she could now be found. 

Once more, the world was aglow. In the light of early day, he sat back down at his desk and reached for a fresh page of paper, addressing it to his brother.

He felt at his core that somehow, when he needed them most, she had bridged all those many miles and sent him purple-pink skies. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> I've been thinking about this story and realized it may be a bit confusing to follow the story since the timeline is back and forth. I've posted two chapters from two different years with similar themes at the same time today. Tell me, does that help?
> 
> Also tell me whatever else you think :)
> 
> Thanks!  
> -S


	13. Chapter 13

It was a Thursday evening in August, a time traditionally reserved for their rendezvous at the fence. But Gilbert had not come for several weeks. Still, Anne walked to the long-appointed spot, pausing to peek through the trees of the orchard, through the thick leaves. He was not there. He would not come to her. 

The sun lingered in the west, making her cheeks grow hot and her eyes squint. She laid back in the grass, still unused to the confines of her longer skirts. She held up her book,  _ This Side of Paradise,  _ to block the sun’s harshest rays. It had been a surprise from Matthew, who worried the young woman had been unlike herself this summer, quieter and more introspective, alone since Diana had left for Paris, and lonely since the neighbor boy had withdrawn without notice. 

She half-read, half-thought as the sun began to truly set, casting the world in warmth during the last few moments of summer. She looked again to the apple trees in front of her, at the first ripe fruits of autumn. Soon the leaves would turn and the soft ground beneath her would freeze over. Summer leaving would take with it all of the words that the season had called for, even those she never cared to say, never could say. 

And what were they? She remembered all of those months, with her jaw tight with words that could not be known-- not to her, and not to the boy who would stand six feet away from her. She stayed there a long while, fiddling idly with her braid, searching her vocabulary for the words which had tensed every muscle in her body all year long, had confused her more with each passing day.

Were they all for him? She supposed they were, as she only had the feeling when she looked at him, when she thought of him, and, now, when she dreamt of him. Since that day in Carmody, she had been in the possession of a heavy heart, as though she were both in the midst of and anticipating a terrible doom. Was it all because Gilbert was bound to go away?

She thought back to a few winters before, when she’d learned from him (in Carmody, as a matter of fact) that he would be boarding a ship and leaving indefinitely. She felt a small, gnawing sadness then, but nothing in comparison to how she felt now. Now, he was destined to leave once more.

She tried to understand this contradiction. Could it have been that there was some hope he would return? She remembered herself asking him to come home someday. There would be no coming back from  _ this _ .

_ And what was this?  _ She wondered. A marriage of convenience? A means to an end? Or could he truly love this girl? She thought of his voice, breathy and unsure, as he asked her advice. Suddenly, her confusion turned to anger. How was she to know what he should do? It seemed to her as though she had been a child just a moment before, and now she was expected to help him make this decision? She lingered on this question.

Had he been a child, too? Well, if they were children then, they’re children no more. Was it this confusion, these questions, this hopelessness which had pulled her out of the gentle swing of her pastoral youth?

Perhaps a child would have been selfish, would have given him a reason not to leave, not to marry this woman. She couldn’t be sure. All she knew is that she didn’t want him to go.

But what reason could she have, what could possibly justify hoping he would turn away from the perfect life?

“Oh,” she breathed. Understanding fell heavily over her. “I’m in love with Gilbert.” Her heart raced at this realization, thought she could think of nothing else. Without meaning to, she looked up to the house, to the window she thought was Gilbert’s.

Quick as anything, she was on her feet, ducking beneath the fence and running for the front door. 

It was Bash’s mother, Hazel, who answered. An intimidating woman, it took Anne a moment to regain her sense of urgency.

“I need to see Gilbert!” Anne said loudly. The woman raised an eyebrow at her.

“He’s just left,” Hazel told her.

“Well when will he be home?”

“I don’t know, he didn’t say.”

“Well I need to tell him something  _ urgently _ , may I please come in and leave him a note?” With another quirk of her eyebrow, Hazel stood aside to let the girl in, watching as she dug around the kitchen for paper and pen. 

_ Dear Gilbert, _

_ I’m sorry I was confused before. I’m not anymore. _

_ Please, don’t go through with the wedding.  _

_ I love you. _

_ P.S. May I please have my pen back? _

_ -Anne _

She tucked the corner safely under a vase and then stood, shoulders squared, a feeling of accomplishment overtaking her as she left the orchard for her own home. The sensation lasted until she found sweet Ka’Kwet’s parents, and a new desperation set over her just as the old one had passed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are times when I feel very silly posting a chapter. This is one of those times.   
> What have I contributed here? A bit of musing, an extra line in Anne's letter, throw-in references to characters who helped drive the plot but whom I do not have the mental energy to employ in any innovative way.  
> Oh well.  
> There will be a better chapter soon.
> 
> -S


	14. Chapter 14

It was the roar of the engine that announced him. The three Roses looked around at one another as the maid took her place by the door, ready to answer. Face pale, Gilbert Blythe entered their home in the last moments of daylight. 

“I’m so sorry to intrude,” he murmured quickly. “I would be grateful if I could speak with Winifred privately.”

Winifred smiled. He had come, surely, to finally properly propose. To give her a ring. Certainly, a fair bit of time had passed since she’d last seen him, but she could not fault him for the nerves of youth. Hadn’t she herself been one of the last to board the ship in Southampton when she was his age?

Mr. Rose clasped Gilbert on the shoulder as he and his wife disappeared to another part of the house. Gilbert took slow steps to join Winifred on the couch, his eyes watching his own feet. As he moved to take his seat, she spoke.

“Well it certainly has been a while, hasn’t it?” She teased.

“You’re right, it has,” he quietly replied. “I’m sorry for delaying, Winifred.”

“Well, that’s all right,” she told him. “So long as you don’t delay much longer.”

He coughed. “I decided to come today because I’ve come to understand something that I hadn’t the last time I saw you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And what is that?”

He willed himself to meet her gaze, his punishment. “There’s someone else who has my heart.”

He watched that ever-present smile, flicker and then fail. “Who?” She hissed.

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, Winifred. My only regret is that I didn’t understand myself sooner. That others became involved.”

Finally, it had begun to add up. Wasn’t there always the wisp of a girl, a murmured name in every recollection of his adolescence? “Did she come to you, weeping, reminding you of some... childhood promise?” The woman spit these last words.

“No, it was nothing like that. I’m so sorry for the time this has taken me....”

Winifred scowled. “And so when is the happy day?” 

Again, he shook his head. “I have no intention to marry,” he told her.

“This is the most confounding thing of all!” She laughed, voice high and cold with disbelief. “So you won’t even settle for me? My God!”

“Settle?” He questioned. “Winnie, no…”

She listened to his weak reassurances. Unable to bear his close presence a moment longer, Winifred stood, hand close to her face in case she had something to hide, and walked to the window.

“Promise me,” she said, voice hoarse. “Promise you won’t say anything to anyone until I’ve left. Give me two weeks.”

She saw him nod. “I can do that.”

What more was there to say? She let the boy leave.

It took mere moments before her parents had reappeared, taking up more of the room’s stale, rancid air than Winifred could bear. 

“Well,” her mother said from behind her. “What did he say?”

“He’s gone,” she said simply. 

“Gone?” Her father asked.

“Yes, gone.”

“Winifred,” her mother said, approaching her daughter and grabbing her wrist. “Winifred, I’ve already spoken to the minister. The neighbors all know!”

“I know,” Winifred responded. From the corner of her eye, she saw her mother turn back to her father.

“What will we do?” She heard Mrs. Rose whisper. “How can we stay? She’ll never find another here now.”

Winifred hung her head.

“Perhaps it’s time we move onto Ottawa as we’d planned,” her father replied in a hushed voice. She closed her eyes. Her mother moved to pack.

She sat up in bed that night, wondering what exactly it was she could bear. The cold desolation of Ottawa, even further from her past? She could hardly imagine herself in that place. Would there be another boy-- yes, a boy-- who she would be meant to pounce upon? How would her parents react if she was unable to enthrall him, to pull him out of the grasps of the neighbor girl with whom he’d passed an idyllic provincial childhood? How could she bear it? 

What if she did succeed in capturing  _ this  _ child? Had managed to call to him like a dreadful siren? What if she pulled him away from his Anne, and sent him to sea, adrift on the same piece of scrap metal which she herself clung to as an ocean of uncertainty and fear crashed around her? How could she bear that?

She went for her trunk and donned a walking suit. 

Winifred hauled her luggage to the steep, narrow staircase used by the servants, out of sight. Or so she thought. At the first landing, she stared down the next flight, where the head housemaid stood staring back. 

“Miss Rose,” the maid whispered.

“Polly,” she replied. Another moment passed between the young women. “Please don’t tell them.” 

Polly said nothing, merely standing aside so Winifred could pass. When Winifred was nearly to the back door, Polly spoke again. “Where will you go?”

The question, spoken so openly, as though they had anything at all in common, took Winifred aback. She took several moments to simply count her breaths, though this proved ineffective, as tears began to brim, threatening to reveal her. She took one more steadying breath and forced a smile onto her face.

“Oh,” she said dismissively, nose crinkled as though it were all a joke. “It hardly matters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is perhaps a bit better than the last chapter. I can't wait to keep writing, but I do have a bunch of papers to write. If I'm well behaved and do my work like I should, it will be a week or so before I post again.  
> But then again, I might ruin my own life and write this instead of essays-- it's been known to happen. 
> 
> Stay safe!  
> S


	15. Chapter 15

“She’s such a lonesome child.” That was what Marilla had called her on New Years Eve, 1920. It was whispered from the other side of the kitchen, meant for only Rachel Lynde’s ears. Still, Anne heard it. 

And who could deny it? She was alone at university in Halifax, her dearest Diana an ocean away in France. All she had of her was a letter a month. The other girls she’d grown up with, and sweet Cole, were at Queens in Charlottetown. Marilla only had a day or two a week where she felt well enough to rise from her bed, let alone agonize over a letter to Anne. 

She’d come to rely heavily on Matthew. His short but frequent letters certainly served to keep her abreast of the happenings of the farm, the birth of animals and the state of the barn, and were always signed with a promise to see her soon, a reminder of his love. Her responses fluctuated, sometimes fairly verbose. On other occasions even Matthew could see that she was withdrawn. 

Sometime in May, Anne had decided that she would indeed take the scholarship, bypassing Queens entirely so that she could begin her degree. In the pain of losing Diana, Anne had counted on all she had learned of love and friendship being enough to find kindred spirits, people with whom she could spend long afternoons and explore the seaside. They would stay up late into the night telling all they had to tell, and, when the precise right moment came, she would tell these new girls of the boy who had lived next door. The person who had lost, and then lost again, just as she had. She would tell them of her friend, and his remarkable courage and kindness in the face of great adversity, of his unwavering support of her.

And then, quietly, she would tell them the truth of it all. She would tell them that she was dead to Gilbert for daring to tell him of her own devotion. 

And she imagined, during those long autumn nights in 1920, that there would be a long hush, until, finally, one girl would risk the question. 

A whisper, the smallest whisper: “But what will you do now?”

And Anne would rise in height and set her chin. “I will love him forever.”

But none of that ever came to be. Instead, there were early mornings when the trees had shed their leaves and framed the courtyard, grey and skeletal, and she would watch out the window as her roommate slept, her fingers running over the pencil marks like prayer beads where Matthew casually told her that Gilbert hadn’t been married after all. 

It continued like this for a year. And then, in the late autumn of ‘21, she received a letter written in an unknown hand. Peeling open the envelope, she felt something flutter to her lap. She turned the thing over to see the bright smile of a child, a toddler. Her sweet young friend, Delphine. She pulled out the letter and soon understood that it had been written by the girl’s father.

_ Your majesty, Queen Anne, _

_ How are you, my friend? I know I should have written to you at school before this, but I promise you there is never a time when there is no more work for me to do. I am a tired man at the end of the day, but your Matthew tells me that this is just fatherhood. _

_ Delphine has begun to walk and to run. I tell you this so you will pray for me. _

_ I won’t bother to ask how your classes are going. It will just spoil your ego to tell me you are at the top of every class. How are your friends?  _

_ Speaking of friends, Gilbert is finally coming home this Christmas. He’s coming the 9th and I’ll be collecting him from the train station. If you’re done with your exams, feel free to catch the same morning ferry and train and I’ll bring you home, too.  _

_ Your friend,  _

_ Bash _

Anne felt her face pale, her fingertips go cold. It had been 15 months since she’d seen him. He hadn’t come home last Christmas, couldn’t afford the journey for Easter, and had supposedly taken work in the city for the entire summer. Why come home now?

_ Had he gotten my letter? _ A voice echoed in her mind. She’d sent it only three weeks before…

Half poem, half prose, she’d sent it in a daze. 

_ Come to me, clear and cold _

_ Warm and true _

Was it a prayer that she’d written? She wasn’t sure, but she had received no response.

She wrote to Bash to tell him she wouldn’t be done with school until the 15th. This was a lie, but one she told to Matthew, too. She would be finished her exams on the 13th, but she had decided that perhaps God had understood her letter to be prayer and had answered it by bringing Gilbert to her once more. She let herself believe that he came in answer to this note. He came for her.

She would not squander the opportunity. 

On the morning of December 14th she dressed quickly before carefully pinning her hair into a low bun at the nape of her neck. It would be the last time.

She’d read in a lady’s magazine that this was what all the fashionable ladies of Paris and London and New York and  _ Toronto  _ were doing. She read that one is meant to go to a men’s barber. That one should go with illustrations of the exact cut that one wanted.

But the barber tried hard to turn her away. 

“I don’t need every flapper in town coming to see me,” he told her. 

“Oh, I’m not a flapper,” she explained, following him about the shop floor. “Please, I’ve spent my life standing out for my red hair. Let me stand out for being en vogue!”

“‘En vogue?’” The fellow repeated. “Fine. Get in the chair.”

An hour later and Anne emerged back onto the Halifax street, feeling oddly vulnerable. She reached a finger beneath her cloche and felt the sheared lock of hair, the longest piece resting above where her bun had sat at the nape of her neck that very morning. 

The last of the girls in the dormitory, Anne lingered in the common room, looking intently at her reflection.

_ He’ll look at me,  _ she assured herself.  _ He has to. _

She was here when the mail was delivered to the building. It took several minutes for Anne to pull herself away from the mirror. A small pile of mail waited at the foot of the front door. Anne took it, sorting through, sliding letters and postcards under different girls’ doors for them to find in a month when they returned to school.

Among the last was an envelope, addressed by her own hand. Anne stilled. In angry red ink, a stamp read:  **INVALID ADDRESS. RETURN TO SENDER.**

Gilbert never saw her prayer.

Still clothed, Anne climbed into her bed, clinging tightly to the unread letter. 

By the time Matthew arrived to collect her the next morning, Anne’s eyes were dry of tears. Her father did not attempt much small talk on the journey home, which suited her fine. She looked to the cold, clear ocean sky above them and thought that perhaps this was God’s mercy. He saved her from being the fool a second time.

It was several days later that she walked through the church, several minutes late. The sound of her high heeled boots seemed to echo loudly across the oak floors. She fixed her gaze ahead. 

She knew that once she sat, she would need to remove her coat and drape it across the back of her seat. And then she would need to remove her hat, the wool cloche which felt like armor or blinders that kept her vision steady. 

And she knew that when the moment came for her to set down her winter garments, she would look to the back pews where he and his brother and his niece always sat. 

She followed through, her eyes rising slowly to the final row. She saw Bash inclining down, saw his lips move slowly as he spoke to his brother. Then she met the brother’s eyes.

Gilbert stared at her, mouth slightly open. She did not know the look that he wore and so felt embarrassed to be seen at all. Suddenly she felt very small, sure that she could not look anything like the beautiful ladies of Toronto.

She thought, perhaps, even being the Bride of Adventure was lost to her now. How could she focus on anything else when everything seemed pierced by this enormous loss? 

With that single glance, she saw a great empty, monotonous life spread before her. Unwieldy, it wrapped its tendrils around her there and kept her firmly rooted to the feeling of inexplicable loss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> Thanks for your patience between these last two chapters. I still have another final paper to write, but the professor just says it's due before the next quarter begins... which means I'm going to make poor choices and try to finish this story in the coming days.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Be well,  
> S


	16. Chapter 16

In late December, the world is nothing but a sheet of the lightest gray, deprived even of a horizon as the ground blends seamlessly into the sky. Anne had always found the days which separate Christmas from the New Year to exist suspended somewhere within that white-gray sheet. 

She rose later than usual and dressed in sage green wool before walking to Matthew’s bedroom to play nurse. She helped him to wash his face and hands, then moved to the water pitcher on the bedside table, glass in hand. A bit of movement out the window pulled her attention away from her task. She watched, fixated, as the young man crossed the lawn. Her hands stilled.

“Anne,” Matthew said, alarmed by her stillness. “What is it?”

“It’s Gilbert,” she said quietly.

“He’s good to look in on me.” Matthew settled back into his pillows. “A good lad.” Anne nodded, but did not take her gaze away from the window. “Anne?”

“Oh, Matthew,” she said with a sigh, a sad smile taking its place on her face. She reached a hand to her cheek and wiped away a tear which threatened to reveal her. “How I ache for my own heart.”

The two hear a faint knock coming from the floor below, then quiet footsteps ascending the staircase. Before he could announce himself in any way, Anne walked quickly to the door to let Gilbert in, greeting him with a nod. She tries to pass him quickly, to sidestep him, but it was no good: the red brim of her eyes had revealed her. He reached out a hand, wrapping it gently around her forearm. 

“Anne.”

She looked up to him then, defiantly. He soon dropped his hand and she was quickly gone. The two men heard the sound of the front door open and close. 

With a careful smile, Gilbert approached Matthew. “Good morning, Mr. Cuthbert. How are you?”

“Been better,” was his response. 

“Mr. Cuthbert, you’re recovering remarkably well, all things considered,” Gilbert tried to convince him. 

“Yes, but I’ve been thinking,” Matthew began. “That someday I’ll have another one of these attacks.”

Gilbert was quiet. “You could,” he admitted. “But Dr. Ward has given you information and instructions, and if you follow them, you will better your chances at living a healthy-” 

Matthew patted the young man’s arm. “I’m an old man,” he said. “Won’t be around forever. Maybe not as long as Anne will need me. You know what that’s like; losing your old man before you’re done needing him.” Gilbert stared open mouthed for a moment, before clearing his throat. “And you’re such a young man,” Matthew continued. “Got a lot of life in you yet. Do you think you could keep an eye out for my Anne? Make sure she’s got a way home?”

The room was filled with static. “Mr. Cuthbert-”

“She says she aches for her heart. Do you know why she might say that?”

“I don’t-”

“She says it when she looks out the window at you.”

There was a long pause as the two men sized one another up, trying to understand the other’s intentions. 

“I think you’re mistaken, Mr. Cuthbert.”

“I saw it with my own eyes,” Matthew said. “Heard it with my own ears.” Gilbert shook his head. “I did,” Matthew insisted once more. “You just left her. No letter. No nothing. One day, she’s something of a little girl, hurrying over to the fence to meet you, getting in your truck for a trip into town, words coming to her a mile a minute. Next she’s a woman and she’s true quiet. I asked her once if there was a fellow at school. She writes back, real careful with her words, like: ‘No. No fellow at school.’ Tell me: what happened to my Anne?” 

His words were an accusation. Gilbert had never heard Mathew speak that way. It took Gilbert a moment to recognize that, yes: it was anger he felt at this charge.

“Anne,” he said, each word coming to him slowly. “Is the one who left. She wrote  _ me  _ off. She made the choices here. I didn’t.” 

Matthew shook his head. “No, my Anne doesn’t quit people. She even went to the fence back in December of ‘21, last time you were home. Hadn’t talked to you in more than a year, but she sat there for twenty minutes in the cold. About 4 in the afternoon.”

Gilbert had not known this, and he was sure the surprise registered on his face. He shook his head once more. 

“Yes,” Matthew told him. “It’s true.” Gilbert took several steps back, falling heavily into a chair in the far corner of the room. “And you didn’t even tell her you didn’t marry the other girl.” Gilbert looked up at this final accusation.

“Yes, I did,” he insisted. “It was in the letter. It was all in the letter I left her.” 

“Letter?” Matthew questioned. “She tells me she hasn’t heard from you since that last day in Carmody. When she hurt her ankle.”

“No,” Gilbert breathed. “No, I left her a letter. After the harvest, before I had to leave for Toronto, I left her a letter. I would never leave without telling her....” The young man felt his stomach sink. He looked at the older man now. “Does she think I left without telling her?”

“Without telling her you called it off with the other one?” Matthew questioned.

“No,” Gilbert said, standing. He began to pace. “No, I wrote so much more in that letter. I said everything. Everything that was-” He cut himself off, suddenly embarrassed to be revealing himself in such a vulnerable way. “It was clear,” he said instead. “I made sure I was clear. And… and she didn’t-” It was all stop and go. “She couldn’t bear what I had said, what I had told her. What I felt for her. What I feel for her. She cut me out of her life.” 

Matthew considered this a moment. “I don’t think she got any letter.”

His breath came to him, fast and heavy, his mind foggy and incoherent. “Sir, I-”

Matthew nodded. “Well you two ought to clear this up.”

Matthew saw Gilbert blink once, still breathing heavily as the boy backed quickly out of the room, the door behind him closed so forcefully that it bounced back. He saw Gilbert begin to run down the hall, heard his calls: “Anne! Anne!” as he raced down the stairs, heard him still calling her from the yard. The calls must have gone unanswered, as the fellow came swiftly back up the stairs, looking wildly around in the hallway until he spotted Anne’s room, her door slightly ajar.

Mr. Cuthbert coughed once, pulling in Gilbert’s attention. The young man looked at him, a question in his eyes. May he?

“Go on, son,” the older man said from his perch in bed.

Gilbert took the last few steps into Anne’s bedroom, thinking, of course, of the one single time before. 

Matthew Cuthbert watched as the neighbor boy wrote his daughter one more letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we are getting closer to the end of this story. Expect one more chapter and a two-part epilogue :)


	17. Chapter 17

The alarm rang loud at 5:30. Anne, already awake, moved to quickly silence it before it could wake her family as well. She looked out the window to the gray twilight, still more than half dark. 

She felt nervous as she pulled her coat on over her nightgown. Finding a flashlight by the front door, she dredged through the snow as the sky slowly lightened to a softer shade of grey. She grew more anxious with each step, her heartbeat too loud to her own ears until she saw the beam of another flashlight point itself towards the fence. 

Out of habit, they both stopped on either side of the fence with several feet separating them. 

For a moment they stood there, staring at the other, still unused to the other’s adult face. 

It is Anne who spoke first, her voice small. “Have you read  _ New Hampshire _ ?” 

This pulled him from his thoughts. “What?”

“Robert Frost’s new poetry collection? ‘Nothing gold can stay’?” She offers. “I bet it’ll win the Pulitzer this year.” Her voice came in a whisper, unsure if the words which were possible in 1919 were possible now. 

“I haven’t,” he told her. “I’m afraid I’m still constantly rereading  _ Leaves of Grass. _ ”

Her face fell in that old, familiar way. She spoke out of shock. “Oh, Gilbert! But I told you  _ so  _ long ago that you  _ need  _ to read Emily Bronte’s poetry. And you still haven’t? No? I’ll get you my copy in the morning.” There was quiet again for a long moment.

Gilbert cleared his throat. “Anne,” he began. “Matthew says....” He let this line of thought flicker and die. “He asked me what it means when you look out the window at me and tell him you ache for your heart.” He was met with silence. “I told him I don’t-- I don’t know. I don’t know what it means. Then he told me you’d been so lonely. He asked me why I never write, and I told him about how… how you never responded to my letter. How I told you  _ everything _ . And you didn’t want any of it-”

“What?” She asked, cutting him off. “What letter?”

“The letter,” he repeated. “From August of… well, it was 1920.” 

Her brows pulled together then. “My letter?” She asked. “On your table?”

“No, on your desk…”

“My desk?” She whispered, eyes glazing over in memory. “The one you left with my pen?”

“Yes,” he answered. 

Her response came to her urgently. “Gilbert, I don’t know anything about that letter-”

“ _ What? _ ”

“I tore it to shreds and threw it out the window! I thought you were acting a coward, writing a letter to reject me and tell me you were leaving--”

“Leaving? What? I didn’t leave, I didn’t marry Winnie-”

“I  _ know _ that now! But I didn’t then. I-”

“But when you realized, as you must have before this winter, that I wasn’t married, what did you think it said then?”

“Oh,” she breathed. “Any number of things. Any number of rejections.”

“Rejection?” He questioned. They stood there a moment in silence, taking a step toward each.

“You read my letter,” she said each word slowly. “And you rejected me. And you did it in that letter.”

“Anne…” He took a deep breath. “I haven’t gotten a letter from you since, what? It would have been ‘19. October of ‘19 when you asked me to meet you here for a book club.” There was further silence as the two breathed heavily, aware of the precipice they found themselves on. “And then I got a glimpse of that letter those girls in your dormitory sent around. ‘He’s come back to me?’” She blinked. “I think we have to tell each other what was in those letters now.” 

Face paling, she said: “You’re the oldest. Oldest goes first.” Every child in Avonlea knew that to be true.

He nodded. “Anne…” His gaze seemed far away, his mind sunk deeply into the memory of that summer evening. “I remember that letter almost perfectly.”

“Do you?” She asked him quietly, prompting him. 

“I do,” he replied with a breathless chuckle. “I said: ‘Since we are parting ways, perhaps forever, I feel I must unburden my heart.” He looked up at her through thick lashes. Her breath caught. “‘You… you are the fond object of my affection and my desire. You, and you alone, are the keeper of the key to my heart.’” He was breathless himself, the words coming from him like a memorized oath. “‘Please don’t be alarmed.’” He closed his eyes, shaking his head in frustration at the memory. She stood very still. With an inclination of his head, as though it were all a sad joke, he continued: “‘I don’t expect your favor, but I can’t in good conscience not reveal myself.’” He opened his eyes then, the sun quickly rising, setting the sky ablaze. He watched her face carefully as he told her the old news. “‘I am not engaged,’” his voice was quieter now. “‘Nor will I be, unless…’”

He paused there. She could not find the will to will him on. “‘Unless it’s to you,’” he said plainly. He breathed heavily for a moment, eyes filling for a moment. He choked them down. ‘“My Anne with an E.’”

He allowed her to stand there a moment, swaying slightly. “Well?” He finally prompted.

“How did you sign it?” She breathed.

“What?”

“Signatures can be so…”

He let out a breathy laugh. “With love, I think.”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh.” 

“Well,” he kicked at the snow with the toe of his boot. “What did yours say?”

She laughed, her eyebrows raised. “Just that I love you.” 

“That was a long time ago,” he whispered. “Do you still?”

She nodded.

With that, the two quickly closed the distance between them, bracing themselves against the fence. Their gloved hands found the other’s face.

Their apologies came at sunrise. They were rushed and chaotic in their urgency, full of “I didn’t know” and “I’m so sorry,” and “I’ve missed you.” 

“I’ve missed you, too.”

It was New Year’s Day, 1924.

Two ghosts embraced for the first time beneath purple-pink skies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the final chapter of this story, which has been a real joy to write, despite the, y'know, constant sadness of the characters. You can expect the two-part epilogue posted directly to this story very soon :)


	18. Epilogue, Part I

Inez Kerr prodded at the fading embers of the common room fire, her dormmates prodding her on, eager for more warmth on this dreary day. 

From her perch on an armchair, Barbara Armstrong stretched her long legs and yawned. “How’s Everett, Sadie?” 

Sadie McCallum’s nose scrunched. “A cad.” 

Rebecca Booth leaned in eagerly. “But in what way?” She pushed.

“Oh, Rebecca, don’t,” Beth Johnston said with a sigh, closing her book. “She clearly doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh, no, Beth, love, I do,” Sadie assured. “He’s a cad. A rotten cad.” 

“What did he do?” Asked Emily Gagnon.

“He’s moving to New York!” The girls gasped, but Sadie silenced their flurry. “The Americans can have him!” She spit.

“The place is a hellscape!” Lizzie Reed insisted, lighting a cigarette. “With their prohibition nonsense.” 

The others muttered their agreement. A few more struck matches to light their own cigarettes.

“Someone should probably keep watch,” Lizzie said. “Anne’ll be here any minute.”

With a cigarette in hand, Opal Nelson perched herself on the windowsill overlooking the courtyard. Almost immediately, Opal moved to extinguish it. 

The others moved quickly to hide their ashtrays. Perfume was sprayed in the air to mask any smell. In the chaos, it took the other girls a moment to notice that Opal had not taken her eyes off the courtyard. 

“Opal!”

“What is it, Opal?”

“Is it Anne? Who’s there?”

The others began to crowd the window, immediately noticing the two figures approaching the building, a young woman with her arm linked through a man’s. Lizzie Reed was immediately given a preferred position at the window so as to make a positive identification of the man. 

“Hell,” Lizzie said, shaking her head. The others knew it was the fellow from the letter, Anne’s Gilbert. 

The pair paused outside the door, causing the girls to crowd in further, their noses pressed to the glass. 

“I’ll write,” Anne assures.

“I’ll call!” Gilbert says with a laugh and nudge. The girls watched as Anne reached into her handbag, emerging with pen and paper. Quickly, she ripped the sheet in two and gestured for Gilbert to turn. With a smile, he obeyed. She used his back as her desk, writing the digits carefully. When she finished, she handed him the paper. She spun around in her turn so he could write his own.

When he’s finished, Anne sticks the scrap of paper into her coat pocket. He caught her hand.

“You still wear these mittens? Has your handwriting gotten any better in them?” He teased, pulling the covered hand to his lips.

“Yes,” she told him. “I’ve had all these years of practice.”

His expression softened. “Do you think we’ll ever stop regretting those damned lost years?” 

She considered this. “I don’t regret those hard years in the asylum and in service before I came to Matthew and Marilla,” she told him. “Love is all the sweeter for the wait.” 

He nods. “I’ll come,” he assures her. “I’ll collect you at Easter. I’ll bring you home.”

She nods, half-dazed at a promise she had thought she would never have. “You’ll come,” she agreed. 

Together, they leaned in for a kiss, his hands finding her waist, hers, the crook of his arm. 

“I love you,” was whispered against cold lips. 

The two took a step apart, each nodding in their turn in that peculiar way of theirs. 

“Be well,” they said quietly in goodbye. 

Gilbert pulled himself away. She (and the girls) watched as he crossed the courtyard, his back to the lot of them. It would seem, though, that before he reached the gates he thought better of it. He stopped mid step and looked over his shoulder, a smirk on his face. The girls watched as Anne blushed wildly, saw as he double backed and kissed her once more before truly leaving. 

A minute passed before Anne came, flushed and hat askew, into the entryway. She turned to see her watchers, face reddening all over again. 

“Anne,” said Bernice Campbell, voice very serious. “What a  _ wretched  _ thing to keep hidden from us!”

Anne shook her head. “I’ve only come to understand it myself in the last few weeks. But I can tell you all the most tragic, romantic story now if you’d like.”

The girls all looked to one another, shrugging. They settled back into their couches and armchairs. Anne stood in the center of their circle.

Her hand reached subconsciously for her hair, half an inch longer than when she’d left the dormitory last, allowed to grow back to the length she had treasured throughout her childhood now that she understood there was no need to  _ make  _ him look: he would do it all on his own.

Letting her hand fall, she began: “One day, Princess Cordelia arrived at the most beautiful kingdom in the world. She knew not a soul and worried no one would like her….”


	19. Epilogue, Part II

It was still dark when the  _ RMS Caroline  _ pulled into port in Southampton. So different from the times she’d been assigned duty on hospital ships-- the narrowly-missed torpedoes of the war years were gladly replaced in December, 1918 with the sounds of her fellow Britons cheering as their sons and daughters, heroes all, made landfall on British soil. Some for the first time in four long, arduous years. 

The crew were the only others awake as the island came into view. Winifred stood on the first class deck, her arms wrapped tightly around herself to brace against the early morning air. She breathed in the English fog and thought of William the Conqueror and William of Orange and all the other men who had crossed this same narrow stretch of sea but who did not truly belong. Not as she did. 

She paid a porter half a pound to haul her trunks to the nearby train station. She stepped carefully onto the train from the platform, straight into her carriage, her white gloves hardly dirty from the entire act. The door was closed once she had taken her seat. She felt herself shudder at the sound of the train whistle and noticed her breath catch as the engine was fed and the wheels of the locomotive began to turn.

Within minutes, the train had overcome the ancient seaport and plunged through to the green countryside.

What was this relief she felt at seeing open pasture, plowed and kept for hundreds and hundreds of years, old as anything worth a shilling? Surprised at herself (she had not had these sensationalist thoughts when she had returned from the war), she was reminded of that most patriotic of anthems.

_ And did those feet in ancient time _

_ Walk upon England’s mountains green? _

_ And was the holy Lamb of God _

_ On England’s pleasant pastures seen? _

The train rolled through Reading, and then on to London. The city was hot and loud and rather dirty, but she realized she had ached for all of it during her exile to Canada. She was let out at King’s Cross and felt that for the first time in many months, she knew exactly what to do and how to behave. She waited quietly at platform 4 for the train to Canterbury. 

It seemed to take forever to make it out of London, the suburbs on the south side of the Thames continuing forever. Finally, though, she was clear of it.

Across sun drenched fields stood tall rolls of hay and chapels made of golden stone. And there it was, the tell tale sign of home: the blanket of poppies stretching wide and long. The conductor yelled out for those departing at Leominster. 

Waiting for her was her uncle’s chauffeur, Palmer. He took her hand and helped her into her seat. He then loaded her luggage onto the back of the automobile. The drive from the station was short, even with Winifred counting down every turn in the road. Soon the car ambled up the long drive towards the impressive edifice, an Elizabethan manor made of gray stone covered in climbing ivy. 

It was twilight when she stepped foot on the gravel drive. In front of her was her own fond Uncle, as well as the staff in their evening wear (rather depleted since she’d last been home). 

“Winifred,” the man said warmly, coming to grasp his niece’s hands.

“Uncle, you’ve made such a fuss!” She let him lead her into the house. 

“Well, what is one to do when the heiress is home at last? Daughter  _ and  _ son to me, that’s what you’ve been since you were small.”

She looked at him then. “Oh, Uncle…”

He raised a hand to silence her. “This fellow couldn’t have held a match to you. The granddaughter of a marquess! That’s what he threw off! And as pretty and clever as they come, a positive fool!”

“Uncle, he was just a boy,” she told him as they walked to the library. 

“Yes, and your mother,  _ my  _ sister, was mad to push it,” he said darkly.

Winifred shook her head once more. “He was just a country boy. He wanted to be a doctor. He loved the neighbor girl.”

“Neighbor girl! How does any neighbor girl compare to you!”

“Uncle,” she warned.

“All right. I’m quite done. Shall we go change for dinner? I understand Mrs. Harris is making your favorite.”

The next morning, she was awoken by a maid’s knock on her childhood bedroom door. The girl, younger than Winifred, came in then to help her dress. Winifred watched the girl dip into a clumsy curtsy.

“You don’t need to do that,” Winnie told her. The girl’s pale blue eyes widened. “I have no title,” Winifred said with a playful smile. “All that’s needed is a ‘good morning.’” 

“Yes, Miss,” the girl nodded as Winifred walked over to her wardrobe to choose a frock for church. She opened the heavy doors and was struck by the first garment she saw hanging.

Reverently, Winifred pulled down the blue-grey dress: her Red Cross nurse’s uniform. 

“Miss?” The girl questioned.

“I haven’t seen it in a while, is all,” Winifred said, her words coming to her breathlessly. “But I used to see it all the time.” 

She hung it back on the rack and pulled down a lavender frock instead, one left behind when she and her parents travelled west. 

Half an hour later and she had joined her uncle at the breakfast table. She was taking a sip of her tea when he asked the ultimate question.

“Winifred,” he began. “Do your parents know that you’re here?”

She paused before responding, choosing her words carefully. “Will I have to leave if they don’t?”

He looked at her a moment. “Certainly not,” was his final pronouncement.

The church was an old Catholic thing, stripped of its icons during the Reformation. As the vicar droned on, Winifred thought of all the times England had stripped itself of its past and had its past stripped from it.

The Celtics lost their England to the Romans, the Romans to the Saxons, the Saxons to the French, who were themselves Norsemen. On and on, again and again. She thought perhaps the Great War was just the latest iteration. 

Halfway back to the house, and Winifred was struck by a sudden but powerful urge.

“I’d like to walk,” she said to her uncle and to the driver. Palmer looked to his employer, awaiting instructions. 

“I’ll walk with you,” her uncle said.

“No,” she told him. “I’d like to be alone in the park for a few minutes. But thank you.”

She was let out. She watched as the automobile puttered out of sight and then began to walk. 

Winifred closed her eyes, breathing in the sweet air. When she opened, she could see it. All of it. 

There was Penelope, walking beside her in her wedding gown of brocaded silk. And off across the lawn is the white tent the ladies stood in their long white skirts and corset bodices, sheltering beneath. Among them are the men she had once known and danced with, all dead from the war. 

She walked on with Penelope, towards the house, as the sounds of laughter and mirth called out to her from the tent. 

It is, of course, a mere trick of the light. A carryover of a young girl’s fancy. 

A train formed behind Winifred as Penelope let her take the lead. The partygoers took their places in the line. 

The heavy front door opened in front of them. Winifred stepped inside, ambling through the long halls and corridors of the stately home. 

Penelope and the ghosts of 1914 followed her inside, all going off whichever way they pleased as Winifred continued her march of the halls, mistress of Leominster Park.

It is the last day of August, 1920. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone,
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read to the end of this story! I hope you enjoyed it for what it was. I really enjoyed playing with time and memory with this. I think that this second part of the epilogue was my favorite thing to write. I hope you can forgive me for the ambiguity of Winifred's ending, but I really feel like there's something interesting to be said for those who cannot find a spot in time, who have difficulty moving forward.   
> I don't think this necessarily means that Winnie never gets an ending, never leaves 1914 firmly behind. Just that, in 1920, she couldn't. I mean, the 1920s were a decade in which many veterans struggled to catch up with the world when it was at peace. 
> 
> I love you and hope you're all well. Hopefully I'll see you soon on my next story, currently being planned, which will be called "Forever is the Sweetest Con." I'm thinking it will be a few very long chapters instead of the many short ones here.
> 
> All the best,  
> S

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone,
> 
> Coming to you live from my Chicago apartment where I'm prepping for another week of 1400 pages of reading and trying to keep my anxiety down after hearing gun shots thirty minutes ago, I present to you something I absolutely should not have dedicated any time to writing.
> 
> I SHOULD be reading about rational choice theory and formulas for Sicilian lemons and the mafia, and just generally becoming a slightly less ignorant historian, but instead, voila.
> 
> Inspired by my period this summer where I researched how much F. Scott Fitzgerald really ruined things for his wife Zelda and my desire to bob my hair again.
> 
> On a more serious note, I won't be able to update often, but I want to give you guys something you're interested in. I could expand on this, keep it in the 20s with flashbacks maybe to the 1910s, or I could do a "Shirbert through the decades" sort of a thing. What do you think you would be more interested in?
> 
> I hope you're all well and enjoying the spooky season!
> 
> All the Best,  
> S


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